THE     SPEAKING 

VOICE 


PRINCIPLES       OF       TRAINING 
SIMPLIFIED    AND    CONDENSED 


BY 
KATHERINE  JEWELL  EVERTS 


HARPER      &      BROTHERS 
NEW      YORK      AND      LONDON 


BOOKS  BY 
KATHERINE  JEWELL  EVERTS 

THE   SPEAKING   VOICE.     Post  8vo. 
VOCAL   EXPRESSION.     Post  8vo. 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,  NEW   YORK 


Copyright,  1908,  by  HARI-HR  &  BROTHERS. 
Published  October,  1908. 

'RINTED    IN    THE     UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERIC 
D-Q 


PREFACE 

T^HIS  little  book  on  voice  is  the  result  of 
1  its  author's  observation  —  first  in  the 
college  and  social  world,  and  later  as  reader, 
teacher,  and  actress — of  the  crying  need,  in 
each  and  all  of  these  circles,  for  some  simple 
and  practical  instruction  in  the  training  of 
the  speaking  voice. 

There  are  volumes  of  recognized  author- 
ity, considerable  in  length  and  exhaustive  in 
detail,  which  one  who  intends  to  use  his  voice 
professionally  should  master,  if  possible,  but 
which  it  is  almost  impossible  for  the  college, 
society,  or  business  man  or  woman  to  study 
and  follow,  from  sheer  lack  of  time.  This 
book  offers  a  method  of  voice  training  which 
is  the  result  of  a  deliberate  effort  to  simplify 
and  condense,  for  general  use,  the  principles 
which  are  fundamental  to  all  recognized  sys- 
iii 


r\  p*  f\ 


PREFACE 

terns  of  vocal  instruction.  It  contains  prac- 
tical directions  accompanied  by  simple  and 
fundamental  exercises,  first  for  the  freeing  of 
the  voice  and  then  for  developing  it  when 
free. 

Careful  study  of  these  directions  and  faith- 
ful practise  of  these  exercises  for  fifteen  min- 
utes a  day  will  do  much  toward  converting 
our  high-pitched,  harsh,  hard  American  in- 
strument of  torture  into  the  low- toned,  effi- 
cient agent  of  personality  it  was  intended  by 
nature  to  be. 

To  Dr.  S.  H.  Clark  of  the  University  of 
Chicago,  and  to  Dr.  S.  S.  Curry  of  the  School 
of  Expression  in  Boston,  I  wish  to  express 
my  gratitude  for  the  inspiration  to  this  task, 
which  their  books  have  given  me.  To  Mr. 
George  W.  Ferguson  of  Berlin,  and  to  Miss 
Caroline  V.  Smith  of  the  State  Normal  School 
of  Minnesota,  I  am  deeply  indebted  for  per- 
sonal instruction  in  the  training  of  my  own 
instrument.  My  especial  gratitude  is  due  to 
my  first  teacher,  Mrs.  Lenora  Austin  Hamlin 
of  Chicago,  who,  at  a  critical  moment  saved 
my  voice  for  such  work  as  it  has  had  the 
iv 


PREFACE 

honor  to  carry  on,  since  my  study  with  her; 
and  to  my  last  teacher,  Mr.  J.  W.  Parson 
Price,  who  has  recently  rescued  it  for  further 
efforts  in  the  field  of  vocal  interpretation. 

KATHERINE  JEWELL  EVERTS. 


PLAN    OF    THE    BOOK 

THE  Voice  throughout  the  book  is  treated 
as  an  Instrument  of  Expression,  with  a 
technique  just  as  necessary  to  master  as  the 
technique  of  the  piano,  violin,  or  any  other 
musical  instrument.  But  before  the  study 
of  technique  can  be  safely  entered  upon,  the 
instrument  must  be  put  in  tune,  so  the  work 
falls  naturally  under  three  heads,  and  the 
book  is  divided  accordingly  into  three  parts, 
as  follows: 

PART  I 
THE  TUNING  OF  THE   INSTRUMENT 

CHAPTER      I.  LEARNING  TO  SUPPORT  THE  TONE 

a.  DIRECTIONS 

b.  EXERCISES 

CHAPTER    II.  LEARNING  TO  FREE  THE  TONE 

a.  DIRECTIONS 

b.  EXERCISES 

vii 


PLAN    OF    THE    BOOK 

CHAPTER  III.  LEARNING  TO   RE -ENFORCE   THE 

TONE 

a.  DIRECTIONS 
6.  EXERCISES 

PART  II 
THE  TECHNIQUE   OF   THE   INSTRUMENT 

CHAPTER      I.  DISCUSSION 
CHAPTER    II.  STUDY  IN  CHANGE  OF  PITCH 
CHAPTER  III.  STUDY  IN  INFLECTION 
CHAPTER   IV.  STUDY  IN  TONE-COLOR 


PART  III 

STUDIES  IN  THE  VOCAL  INTERPRETATION  OF  LIT- 
ERATURE 

CHAPTER        I.  THE  LAW  OF  APPROACH 
CHAPTER       II.  THE  ESSAY 
CHAPTER     III.  THE  FABLE 
CHAPTER     IV.  LYRIC  POETRY 
CHAPTER       V.  DIDACTIC  POETRY 
CHAPTER     VI.  THE  SHORT  STORY 
CHAPTER    VII.  EPIC  POETRY 
CHAPTER  VIII.  THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE  AND 
THE  PLAY 
viii 


INTRODUCTION 

NEXT  to   that  primary  instinct,  the  in- 
stinct for  self-preservation,  the  strong- 
est impulse  of  the  human  heart  is  for  self- 
expression. 

The  failure  of  society  to  provide  simple 
and  natural  means  of  self-preservation  has 
led  to  the  American  anarchist.  The  failure 
of  education  to  provide  for  the  training  of 
the  simple  and  natural  means  of  self-expres- 
sion has  led  to  the  American  voice. 

We  cram  the  student's  mind  with  a  knowl- 
edge of  beauty  and  truth,  but  do  not  free 
the  channels  of  communication  and  expres- 
sion through  which,  in  the  act  of  sharing 
the  knowledge  he  has  acquired,  the  student 
assimilates  and  recreates  that  beauty  and 
truth  and  finds  it  a  vital  force  in  his  soul  life 
and  a  vital  index  of  his  culture, 
ix 


INTRODUCTION 

How  many  of  us  would  waste  the  time  we 
do  waste,  in  idle  gossip,  if  we  knew  we  could 
adequately  express  half  the  "worth-while" 
ideas  we  conceive  but  dare  not  utter  because 
our  instruments  are  out  of  tune  and  we  know 
they  will  betray  us  ?  What  musician  would 
consent  to  play  on  a  piano  which  had  not 
been  put  in  perfect  tune? 

Our  first  step,  then,  is  to  tune  the  instru- 
ment; to  put  the  voice  in  proper  condition 
for  use;  to  learn  to  support,  free,  and  re- 
enforce  the  tone  which  is  to  be  converted 
later,  not  into  slovenly,  careless  gossip,  but 
into  beautiful  and  effective  speech. 


PART  I 
THE  TUNING  OF  THE   INSTRUMENT 


THE    SPEAKING   VOICE 


LEARNING  TO  SUPPORT  THE  TONE 

BEFORE  attempting  the  exercises  in- 
volved in  the  first  step,  let  us  examine 
a  tone  in  the  making,  or,  rather,  let  us  feel 
how  it  is  made — for  the  process  of  tone  pro- 
duction, so  far  as  it  concerns  us,  is  not  of 
physiological,  but  rather  psychological,  sig- 
nificance. The  huge  tomes  on  the  physiology 
of  the  voice  which  are  of  vital  interest  to  the 
student  of  anatomy  are  not  only  of  no  use, 
but  are  apt  to  be  a  positive  hindrance  to  the 
student  of  vocal  training.  A  vivid  picture 
of  the  larynx  or  vocal  cords,  a  cross-section 
of  the  trachea,  or  a  highly  illuminated  image 
of  any  of  the  cavities  concerned  in  the  pro- 
duction of  that  most  wonderful  thing  in  the 
3 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

world,  a  pure  tone  of  the  human  voice,  is  a 
source  of  delight  to  the  physiologist,  but  will 
only  interfere  with  that  feel  for  the  free,  full 
volume  of  sound  which  the  student  of  voice 
as  an  instrument  of  thought  and  emotion 
is  to  make,  as  a  first  step  in  vocal  training. 
Then,  not  as  anatomists  or  physiologists,  but 
as  makers  of  music,  let  us  look  at,  let  us  feel 
for,  a  tone. 

I  am  "stung  by  the  splendor  of  a  sudden 
thought";  I  desire  to  share  it  with  you;  the 
desire  causes  me  to  take  a  deep  breath,  a 
column  of  air  rises,  is  converted  into  tone, 
passes  into  the  mouth,  and  is  moulded  into 
the  words  which  symbolize  my  thought. 
Let  us,  without  further  analysis,  try  this. 
Close  your  eyes,  think  of  some  line  of  prose 
or  poetry  which  has  moved  you  profoundly; 
let  it  take  possession  of  you  until  you  are 
seized  by  the  desire  to  voice  it.  Still  with 
closed  eyes,  feel  yourself  take  the  breath 
which  is  to  be  made  into  tone,  and  then 
into  the  words  which  stand  for  the  thought. 
Hold  that  sensation,  and  study  it  with  me 
for  a  moment.  "But,"  you  say,  "the  desire 
4 


LEARNING  TO  SUPPORT  THE  TONE 

to  voice  the  thought  does  not  seize  me." 
Very  well,  let  me  ask  you  a  question.  "Do 
you  like  growing  old?"  Now  your  thought 
was  converted  so  swiftly  into  speech  that 
you  had  no  time  to  study  the  conversion. 
Once  more,  whether  your  answer  be  the 
"Yes"  of  sixteen  or  the  "No"  of  thirty, 
close  your  eyes  and  feel  for  the  tone  you 
are  to  use  in  making  the  single  word  Yes 
or  No. 

Now,  a  little  more  in  detail,  let  us  see  what 
happens.  A  thought  full  of  emotion  meets 
the  question,  the  desire  to  answer  is  born; 
the  need  of  breath  to  meet  the  desire  con- 
tracts the  diaphragm  (the  pump) ;  the  chest 
(the  reservoir)  fills ;  a  column  of  air,  pumped 
and  controlled  by  the  diaphragm,  and  re- 
enforced  in  the  chest,  rises,  strikes  the  vo- 
cal cords  (the  " strings"  of  the  instrument), 
the  strings  vibrate,  converting  the  air  into 
sound,  into  tone;  the  tone,  re-enforced  in  all 
the  chambers  of  the  head,  passes  into  the 
mouth,  and  is  there  moulded  by  the  juxta- 
position of  the  organs  of  speech  (lips,  teeth, 
tongue)  into  the  word,  the  single,  monosyl-* 
5 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

labic  word,  Yes  or  No,  which  frames  the 
thought.  Now,  once  more,  with  closed  eyes, 
sense  the  process  and  hold  the  sensation,  but 
do  not  speak  the  word.  Now,  still  once 
more,  and  this  time,  speak.  Alas!  did  we 
say  we  were  "makers  of  music"?  Is  this 
harmony,  this  harsh,  hard,  breathy,  strident 
note?  What  is  the  trouble? 

First  of  all,  fundamental  to  all,  and  beyond 
a  doubt  the  secret  of  the  dissonance,  you  did 
not  breathe  before  you  spoke  or  as  you  spoke. 

mean,  really  breathe.  And  that  is  the  first 
point  to  be  attacked.  [Breathe,  breathe, 
breathe !  you  must  learn  how  to  breathe ;  you 
must  get  your  pump,  your  diaphragm,  into 
working  order,  you  must  master  it,  you  must 
control  it,  you  must  not  fetter  it,  you  must 
give  it  a  free  chance  to  do  its  work.  If  you 
are  a  man,  you  have  probably  at  least  been 
fair  in  not  tying  down  your  pump ;  you  have 
not  encased  yourself  in  steel  bands  and 
drawn  them  so  tight  that  your  diaphragm 
could  not  descend  and  perform  its  office.  Yes, 
and  if  you  are  the  athletic  girl  of  to-day, 
you  have  probably  learned  the  delight  and 
6 


LEARNING  TO  SUPPORT  THE  TONE 

benefit  of  free  muscular  action.  But  you 
may  still  be  suffering  from  the  effect  of  your 
mother's  crime  in  this  direction.  It  may 
have  sent  you  into  the  world  with  weakened 
muscles  in  control  of  the  great  pumping- 
station  upon  which  must  depend  the  beauty 
of  your  voice. 

But  whatever  the  condition  or  the  cause, 
it  must,  if  wrong,  be  made  right.  We  must 
learn  to  breathe  properly,  freely,  naturally. 
(Do  not  confuse  " naturally"  and  " habitu- 
ally." In  this  connection  these  terms  are  op- 
posites  rather  than  synonymes.)  To  breathe 
naturally  we  must  do  away  with  all  con- 
striction. We  must  choose  between  the  al- 
leged beauty  of  a  disproportionately  small 
waist  and  the  charm  of  a  beautiful  and  al- 
luring voice.  We  cannot  have  both.  Then, 
off  with  tight  corsets.  Thank  Heaven,  they 
are  the  exception  and  not  the  rule  to-day. 
Please  note  that  I  distinctly  do  not  say, 
' 'Off  with  corsets,"  but  only,  "Off  with  ill- 
fitting  corsets,"  for  which  "tight"  is  but 
another  name.  I  believe,  to  digress  a  mo- 
ment, with  our  present  method  of  dress,  a 
7 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

properly  fitted  corset  is  an  absolute  necessity, 
except  in  the  rare  instances  where  a  perfectly 
proportioned  and  slender  figure  is  also  un- 
der the  control  of  firm,  well- trained  muscles. 
In  a  first  flush  of  rapture  over  the  vision  of 
the  gentle  ladies  of  Mr.  Howells's  Altruria, 
seen  Through  the  Eye  of  the  Needle,  we  feel 
that  we  can  take  a  step  toward  that  paradise 
by  discarding  the  straitlaced  tailored  torture 
the  present-day  costume  prescribes,  for  the 
corsetless  grace  of  the  Altrurian  garment; 
but  our  enthusiasm  is  short-lived,  as  we 
realize  that  we  are  in  modern  America  and 
must  make  as  inconspicuously  gracious  an 
appearance  as  possible  without  violating  the 
conventions.  So,  as  I  say,  do  not  discard 
the  corset,  which  is,  for  the  majority  of  wom- 
en, the  saving  grace  of  the  present  fashion 
in  dress;  only  see  that  your  corset  brings 
out  what  is  best  in  the  figure  God  gave  you, 
instead  of  disfiguring  it,  as  undue  constriction 
of  any  part  of  your  body  will  inevitably  do. 
Incidentally,  by  this  precaution,  save  your 
voice  as  well. 

But  until  we  can  be  refitted,  or  readjust 
8 


LEARNING  TO  SUPPORT  THE  TONE 

the  corsets  we  already  wear,  and  the  gowns 
made  over  them,  we  must  avoid  the  discour- 
aging effect  of  trying  to  work  against  the 
odds  of  a  costume  which  interferes  with  our 
breathing,  by  making  a  practice  of  taking  the  ^ 
breathing  exercises  involved  in  the  first  step, 
at  night  and  in  the  morning.  Five  minutes  r  ( 
of  deep,  free  breathing  from  the  diaphragm,  ( 
lying  flat  on  your  back  in  bed  at  night  and 
before  you  rise  in  the  morning,  will  accom- 
plish the  desired  result.^  The  point  in  lying 
flat  on  your  back  is  that  in  that  position 
alone  you  can  be  sure  you  are  breathing  nat- 
urally, which  is  diaphragmatically.  Indeed, 
you  cannot,  without  great  effort,  and  some- 
times not  even  then,  breathe  any  other  way 
than  naturally.  I  cannot  tell  you  why.  I 
can  only  say,  try  it  and  see. 

Our  first  exercise,  then,  is  to  lie  flat  on  the 
back  at  night  and  in  the  morning,  when  you 
are  perfectly  free,  and,  with  closed  eyes,  take 
deep,  long  breaths,  letting  them  go  slowly, 
and  studying  the  accompanying  sensation 
until  it  is  fixed  fast  and  you  feel  you  cannot 
lose  it,  but  can  reproduce,  under  any  condi- 
9 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

tion,  the  action  which  resulted  in  that  sen- 
sation. The  incidental  effect  of  this  exercise 
is  to  make  one  very  sleepy.  Indeed,  nothing 
will  so  quickly  and  effectually  put  to  flight 
that  foe  of  the  society  wroman  and  business 
man  of  to-day,  insomnia,  as  the  practice  of 
deep,  regular,  natural  breathing.  Add  count- 
ing each  respiration,  and  it  is  an  almost  un- 
failing remedy.  The  only  trouble  for  our 
purpose  is  that  it  is  sometimes  so  swiftly 
soporific  that  we  are  asleep  before  the  sensa- 
tion is  fixed  fast  and  noted  in  consciousness: 
which  is  one  object  of  the  exercise.  How- 
ever, should  we  find  the  prescribed  five  min- 
utes at  night  interfered  with  by  coming 
drowsiness,  we  may  yield  in  sleepy  content, 
"sustained  and  soothed"  by  the  thought  that 
we  shall  be  in  splendid  shape  for  the  morn- 
ing practice,  with  which  nothing  must  inter- 
fere, "not  headache,  or  sciatica,  or  leprosy, 
or  thunder-stroke." 

We  are  ready  now  for  the  third  exercise. 

N     When,  for  five  minutes  in  the  morning,  lying 

v  flat  on  your  back,  with  closed  eyes,  you  have 

taken  deep,  long  breaths,  letting  them  go 

10 


LEARNING   TO   SUPPORT  THE   TONE 

slowly,  yielding  your  whole  body  to  the  act 
of  respiration,  noting  the  effect  and  fixing 
fast  the  sensation,  as  a  next  step  you  are  to 
stand  up  and  repeat  the  operation.  Still 
holding  the  sensation  (not  by  tightening  your 
muscles,  or  clenching  your  fists,  or  setting 
your  teeth,  but  simply  by  thinking  the  sen- 
sation, letting  it  possess  you) ,  in  this  attitude 
of  mind  breathe  naturally,  standing  instead 
of  lying  down.  That  is  all.  Don't  be  dis- 
couraged if  the  test  prove  unsatisfactory  at 
first.  Try  an  intermediate  step.  Sit  on  the 
side  of  your  bed,  or  in  a  straight-back  chair,  '\ 
and,  closing  your  eyes  and  relaxing  all  your  \ 
muscles  except  those  governing  the  dia- 
phragm, breathe.  Now  stand,  well  poised. 
By  well  poised,  of  course  you  know  I  mean  \ 
with  the  weight  perfectly  balanced  about  the  ! 
centre  of  gravity,  which,  in  turn,  means  that 
a  perpendicular  dropped  from  the  highest 
point  of  the  lifted  chest  without  encounter- 
ing any  part  of  your  body,  and  especially  not 
your  abdomen  (which  should  be  held  always 
back,  so  that  it  is  flat,  if  not  actually  con- 
cave) will  fall  unobstructed  to  the  floor,  strik- 
ii 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

ing  a  point  just  between  the  balls  of  your 
feet.  Standing  thus,  well  poised,  place  the 
right  hand  on  your  body,  just  below  your 
ribs  at  the  base  of  the  lungs,  and  your  left 
hand  on  your  back,  just  opposite  your  right 
hand;  then  breathe,  and  feel  the  diaphragm, 
as  it  descends,  cause  the  torso,  in  turn,  to 
expand  from  front  to  back,  pressing  against 
either  hand.  Let  the  breath  go  slowly,  con- 
trolling its  emission  by  controlling  the  dia- 
phragm. 

So  the  three  exercises  stand  progressively 
thus: 

First. — Breathe  naturally,  which  is  dia- 
phragmatically,  five  minutes  at  night.  (At 
first  you  can  be  sure  of  doing  this  only  by 
lying  flat  on  your  back.) 

Second. — Breathe  naturally,  which  is  dia- 
phragmatically,  for  five  minutes  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  note  the  sensation. 

Third. — Stand  and  test  your  newly  ac- 
quired power  by  trying  to  breathe  diaphrag- 
matically  while  on  your  feet. 

These  three  exercises  constitute  the  first 
step  in  the  first  stage  of  vocal  training,  and 

12 


LEARNING  TO  SUPPORT  THE  TONE 

that  step  is  called  "Learning  to  Support  the 
Tone." 

I  know  a  little  girl  who,  in  the  beginning 
of  her  career,  alarmed  her  parents  by  refus- 
ing to  utter  a  syllable  or  the  semblance  of  a 
syllable  until  she  was  three  years  old,  when 
she  evidently  considered  herself  ready  for  her 
maiden  effort  at  speech.  Prepared  she  proved, 
for,  sitting  at  the  window  in  her  high  chair 
one  day,  watching  people  pass,  she  remarked 
quietly  and  with  perfect  precision,  "  There 
goes  Mrs.  Tibbets."  I  find  myself  secretly 
wishing  it  were  possible  for  you  to  refrain 
from  speech,  not  for  three  years,  but  for  three 
weeks,  while  you  quietly  prepare  for  speech 
by  practising  these  three  breathing  exercises. 
It  is  quite  the  customary  thing  for  the  teacher 
of  voice  as  an  instrument  of  song  to  require 
of  the  student  a  period  of  silence — that  is,  a 
period  in  which  only  exercises  are  allowed, 
and  songs,  even  the  simplest,  are  forbidden. 
However,  our  only  way  to  secure  this  condi- 
tion would  be  to  go  into  retreat;  but,  after 
all,  one  of  the  most  encouraging  things  about 
this  work  is  the  remarkable  effect  upon  the 
'  13 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

speaking  voice  of  simply  holding  the  thought 
of  the  right  condition  for  tone,  thinking  the 
three  exercises  I  have  given  you.  It  is  not 
so  remarkable,  perhaps,  in  the  light  of  the 
experiment  recently  made  (I  am  told)  in  one 
of  our  great  colleges,  when  three  men  daily 
performed  a  certain  exercise,  and  three  other 
men  simply  thought  it  intensely,  and  the  re- 
sultant effect  upon  the  muscles  used  in  the 
act  was  marvellously  similar.  I  am  half 
afraid  to  have  recalled  this,  lest  you  take 
advantage  of  the  suggestion  and  relax  your 
effort,  or,  out  of  curiosity,  make  the  experi- 
ment. Please  don't.  I  offer  it  only  as  an 
incentive  to  you,  to  think  at  least  of  the 
desired  condition,  if  you  cannot  every  day 
indulge  in  an  active  effort  to  attain  it. 

Please  test  at  once  the  immediate  effect  of 
this  third  exercise.  Take  the  attitude  I  have 
defined,  and  try  once  more  any  full-vo welled 
syllable.  I  think  you  will  find  the  tone  al- 
ready improved. 


II 

LEARNING   TO    FREE    THE    TONE 

WE  have  worked,  so  far,  for  support  of 
tone.  We  must  now  free  the  supported 
tone,  by  freeing  the  channel  for  the  emission 
of  the  breath  as  it  is  converted  into  tone  and 
moulded  into  speech.  We  shall  find  that  in 
learning  to  support  the  tone  we  have  gone 
far  toward  securing  that  freedom;  but  the 
habit  of  years  is  not  easily  overcome,  and 
every  time  you  have  spoken  without  proper 
support  of  breath  you  have  forced  the  tone 
from  the  throat,  by  tightening  the  muscles 
and  closing  the  channel,  thus  making  condi- 
tions which  must  now  be  reformed  by  steady, 
patient  effort.  Yet  it  is  not  effort  I  want 
from  you  now;  it  is  lack  of  effort.  It  is 
passivity ;  it  is  surrender.  I  want  you  to  re- 
lax all  the  muscles  which  govern  the  organs 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

concerned  in  converting  the  breath  into  tone 
and  moulding  the  tone  into  speech,  all  the 
muscles  controlling  the  throat  and  mouth, 
including  the  lips  and  jaw.  I  want  utter 
passivity  of  the  parts  from  the  point  where 
the  column  of  breath  strikes  the  vocal  cords 
to  where,  as  tone,  it  is  moulded  into  the 
word  "No."  Surrender  to  the  desire  to  ut- 
ter that  word.  Concentrate  your  thought  on 
two  things :  the  taking  of  the  breath  and  the 
word  it  is  to  become.  Now,  lying  down,  or 
sitting  easily,  lazily,  in  a  comfortable  chair, 
or  standing  leaning  against  the  wall,  with 
closed  eyes,  surrender  to  the  thought  "No," 
and,  taking  a  breath,  speak.  Still  hard  and 
unmusical  you  find?  Yes,  but  I  am  sure 
not  so  hopelessly  hard  as  before.  What  shall 
we  do  to  relax  the  tense  muscles,  to  release 
the  throat  and  free  the  channel  ?  At  the  risk 
of  being  written  down  a  propagandist,  in  the 
ranks  of  the  extreme  dress-reformers,  I  shall 
say,  first  of  all,  take  off  those  high,  tight 
collars.  Again,  as  with  the  corset,  it  is  a 
case  of  a  misfit  rather  than  too  tight  a  fit. 
If  your  collar  is  cut  to  fit,  it  need  not  be  too 
16 


LEARNING    TO    FREE    THE    TONE 

high  nor  too  tight  for  comfort,  and  it  will 
still  be  becoming.  You  want  it  to  cling  to 
the  neck  and  keep  the  line.  Cut  it  to  fit, 
and  it  will  keep  the  line;  then  put  in  pieces 
of  whalebone,  if  necessary,  or  resort  to  some 
of  the  many  other  devices  now  in  vogue  for 
keeping  the  soft  collar  erect,  but  don't  choke 
yourself,  either  by  fastening  it  too  tight  or 
cutting  it  too  high.  But  how  simple  it  would 
be  if  we  could  relax  the  tension  by  doffing 
our  ill-fitting  corsets  and  collars!  Alas!  the 
trouble  is  deeper-seated  than  that. 
{  It  is  an  indisputable  and  most  unfortunate 
fact  that  nervous  tension  registers  itself  more 
easily  in  the  muscles  about  the  mouth  and 
throat  than  anywhere  else.  So,  if  we  live  as 
do  even  the  children  of  to-day,  under  excite- 
ment, and  so  in  a  state  of  nervous  tension, 
the  habit  of  speaking  with  the  channel  only 
half  open  is  quickly  formed,  and  the  voice 
becomes  shrill  and  harsh.  You  have  noticed 
that  the  more  emphatic  one  grows  in  argu- 
ment the  higher  and  harder  the  voice  be- 
comes, and,  incidentally,  the  less  convincing 
the  argument.  This  is  true  of  all  excite- 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

ment;  the  nervous  tension  accompanying  it  ' 
constricts  the  throat,  and  the  result  is  a 
closed  channel.  To  learn  instinctively  to  re- 
/  fer  this  tension  for  registration  not  to  the 
throat,  but  to  the  diaphragm,  is  a  part  of 
vocal  training.  This  can  be  easily  accom- 
plished with  children,  and  the  habit  estab- 
lished of  taking  a  deep  breath  under  the  in- 
fluence of  any  emotion.  This  breath  will 
cause  the  throat  to  open  instead  of  shut,  and 
the  tone  to  grow  full,  deep,  and  round,  in-, 
stead  of  high  and  harsh.  The  full,  deep, 
round  tone  will  carry  twice  as  far  as  the' 
high,  harsh,  breathy  one.  The  one  deep 
breath  resulting  in  the  full,  deep  tone  may — 
nay,  will — often  serve  the  same  purpose  as 
Tattycoram's  " Count  five-and- twenty,"  and 
save  the  angry  retort. 

It  is  useless  to  regret,  on  either  ethical  or 
aesthetic  grounds,  that  we  were  not  taught 
in  childhood  to  take  the  deep  breath  and 
make  the  deep  tone.  But  let  us  look  to  it 
that  the  voices  and  dispositions  of  our  chil- 
dren are  not  allowed  to  suffer.  Meanwhile, 
in  correcting  the  fault  in  the  use  of  our  own 
18 


LEARNING    TO    FREE    THE    TONE 

instruments,  we  shall  go  far  toward  estab- 
lishing the  proper  condition  with  the  next 
generation,  since  the  child  is  so  mimetic  that, 
to  hear  sweet,  quiet,  low  tones  about  him 
will  have  more  effect  than  much  technical  * 
training  in  keeping  his  voice  free  and  mu- 
sical. In  the  same  way,  the  child  who  hears 
good  English  spoken  at  home  seems  less  de- 
pendent upon  text-book  in  grammar  and 
rhetoric,  to  perfect  his  verbal  expression, 
than  the  child  who  is  not  so  fortunate  in  this 
respect. 

To  insure  the  registration  of  nervous  ten- 
sion in  the  muscles  controlling  the  diaphragm 
and  not  the  throat — that  is,  to  form  the  habit 
of  breathing  deeply  when  speaking  under  the 
influence  of  emotion,  is  our  problem.  '  The 
present  fault  in  registration  will  be  found  to 
be  different  with  each  one  of  us,  or,  at  least, 
will  cause  us  "to  flock  together"  according 
to  tthe  place  of  registration.  Each  must 
locate  for  himself  his  own  difficulty,  or  go 
to  a  vocal  specialist  and  have  it  located. 
The  tension  may  be  altogether  in  the  muscles 
governing  the  throat,  or  it  may  be  in  those 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

about  the  mouth.  There  is  the  resultant, 
breathy  tone,  the  hard  tone,  the  nasal  tone, 
the  guttural  tone,  the  tone  that  issues  from 
a  set  jaw  or  an  unruly  tongue.  All  mean 
tension  of  muscles  somewhere,  and  must  be 
met  by  relaxation  of  these  muscles  and  the 
freeing  of  the  channel.  How  to  relax  the 
i^throat  shall  be  our  initial  point  of  attack.  A 
suggestion  made  by  my  first  teacher  proved 
most  helpful  to  me,  a  suggestion  so  simple 
that  I  did  not  for  the  moment  take  it  seri- 
ously. "Think,"  she  said,  "how  your  throat 
feels  just  before  you  yawn."  "Yes,"  I  re- 
plied, irrelevantly,  "and  just  after  you  have 
eaten  a  peppermint  —  that  cool,  delicious, 
open  sensation."  This  impressed  her  as  sig- 
nificant, but  not  so  effective  as  her  suggestion 
to  me,  which  I  felt  to  be  true  when  I  began 
to  think  of  it  seriously,  and  so,  of  course,  to 
yawn  furiously.  Try  it. 

Think  of  the  yawn.  Close  your  eyes  and 
feel  how  the  deep  breath  with  which  the  yawn 
begins  (the  need  of  which,  indeed,  caused  it) 
opens  the  throat,  relaxing  all  the  muscles. 
NOW,  instead  of  yawning,  speak.  The  result 
39 


LEARNING    TO    FREE    THE    TONE 

will  be  a  good  tone,  simply  because  the  con- 
dition for  tone  was  right.     The  moment  the 
yawn  actually  arrives,  the  condition  is  lost, 
the  throat  closes;  but  in  that  moment  before 
the  break  into  the  yawn,  the  muscles  about 
the  throat  relax  and  the  channel  opens,  as\ 
the  muscles  controlling  the  diaphragm  tight-  \ 
en  and  the  deep  breath  is  taken. 

These,  then,  are  the  first  exercises  in  the 
second  step  in  vocal  training.  This  step  is 
called  ''Freeing  the  Tone." 

First. — Yawn,  noting  the  sensation. 

Second. — Just  before  the  throat  breaks 
into  the  yawn,  stop,  and,  instead  of  carrying 
out  the  yawn,  speak.  Repeat  this  fifty  times, 
three  times  a  day,  or  twenty  times,  five  times 
a  day,  or  ten  times,  as  often  as  you  will. 
Only,  keep  at  it.  Take  always  a  single  full- 
vowelled  monosyllable:  one,  or  four,  or  no,  or 
love,  or  loop,  or  dove,  etc. 

We  cannot,  in  this  consideration,  touch 
more  in  detail  upon  individual  cases,  but 
must  confine  ourselves  to  these  simple  ex- 
ercises, which  will,  in  general,  be  swiftly  and 
effectively  remedial. 

21 


1 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

But  we  must  not  stop  with  the  throat, 
which  is  but  part  of  the  channel  involved  in 
the  emission  of  breath  as  speech.  There  is 
the  tense  jaw  to  be  reckoned  with — the  jaw 
set  by  nervous  tension,  the  jaw  which  refuses 
to  yield  itself  to  the  moulding  of  the  tone  into 
the  beautiful  open  vowel  and  the  clean-cut 
consonant  which  make  our  words  so  interest- 
ing to  utter.  It  is  the  set  jaw  which,  forcing 
the  tone  to  squeeze  itself  out,  causes  it  to 
sound  thin  and  hard.  Again,  it  is  surrender 
and  not  effort  I  want.  Just  as  I  should  try 
to  secure  the  relaxation  of  your  arm  or  hand 
by  asking  you  to  surrender  it  to  me,  drop  it 
a  dead  weight  at  your  side  for  me  to  lift  as 
I  choose,  so  now  I  ask  you  to  surrender  your 
lower  jaw  to  yourself.  Let  it  go. 

Drop  your  head  forward,  resting  your  chin 
on  your  chest.  Then  raise  your  head,  but 
not  your  chin.  Let  your  mouth  fall  open. 
Assume  for  the  moment  that  mark  of  the 
feeble-minded,  the  idiotic,  the  dropped-open 
mouth,  just  long  enough  to  note  the  sensa- 
tion. ]  Place  your  fingers  on  either  side  of 
your  head  where  the  jaws  conjoin,  and  open 
22 


LEARNING    TO    FREE    THE    TONE 

your  mouth  quickly  and  with  intention. 
Note  the  action  under  your  finger- tips.  Now 
let  the  mouth  fall  open,  by  simply  surrender- 
ing the  lower  jaw,  and  note  this  time  the  lack 
of  action  under  your  fingers,  at  the  juncture 
of  the  jaws.  It  is  this  passive  surrender 
which  we  must  learn  to  make,  if  we  find,  on 
investigation,  that  we  are  speaking  through 
a  half -open  mouth  held  fast  by  a  set  jaw. 
The  set  jaw  resists  and  distorts  the  mould, 
and  the  beauty  of  the  form  of  the  word  which 
flows  from  the  mould  is  lost ;  the  relaxed  jaw 
yields  to  the  moulding  of  the  perfectly  mod- 
elled word.  • 

In  practising  this  relaxation  there  is  very 
little  danger  of  going  too  far,  since  the  set 
jaw  is  the  indication  of  a  tense  habit  of 
thought,  of  a  high-strung  temperament,  and 
this  habit  of  thought  will  never  become, 
through  the  practice  of  an  outward  mechan- 
ical exercise,  the  slack  habit  of  thought  which 
is  evidenced  by  the  loose  dropping  of  words 
from  a  too  relaxed  jaw — a  habit  which  must 
be  met  by  quite  the  opposite  method  of  treat- 
ment. There  are  many  exercises  involved  in 
23 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

vocal  training  which  must  be  directed  very 
carefully  for  a  time,  before  the  student  can 
be  trusted  to  practise  them  alone;  so  I  am 
confining  myself  in  this,  as  in  every  step  we 
take  together,  to  the  simple,  fundamental, 
and  at  the  same  time  perfectly  safe  ones. 

To  review  those  for  relaxation  of  the  lower 
jaw: 

First. — Drop  the  head  until  the  chin  rests 
upon  the  breast.  Raise  the  head,  but  not 
the  lower  jaw: 

Second. — With  eyes  devoid  of  intelligence 
and  the  mouth  dropped  open,  shake  the  head 
until  you  feel  the  weight  of  the  lower  jaw — 
until  the  lower  jaw  seems  to  hang  loosely 
from  the  upper  jaw  and  to  be  shaken  by  it, 
as  your  hand,  when  you  shake  it  from  the 
wrist,  seems  to  be  commanded  by  the  arm, 
and  to  have  no  volition  of  its  own. 

Third. — Test  your  ability  to  surrender  the 
jaw  by  placing  your  fingers  on  either  side 
your  head  in  front  of  the  ears  at  the  con- 
junction of  the  jaws,  and  first  open  your 
mouth  with  intention,  noting  the  action; 
then  think  the  word  "No,"  and  surrender 
24 


LEARNING    TO    FREE    THE    TONE 

the  jaw  to  the  forming  of  the  word,  noting 
the  action  or  absence  of  action  again. 

So  much  for  the  set  jaw.  Ten  or  fifteen 
minutes  a  day — yes,  even  five  minutes  a  day 
of  actual  practice  with  the  constant  thought 
of  surrender,  will  reward  you.  Try  it. 

And  still  the  channel  is  not  open.  There 
remains  that  most  unruly  member,  the 
tongue — the  tongue  which  refuses  to  lie  flat 
in  the  mouth,  but  insists  on  rising  up  when 
you  speak  and  opposing  itself  in  a  little 
mound  at  the  back  of  the  mouth,  over  which 
or  around  which  the  tone  must  creep,  or  be 
thrown  back  into  the  throat,  instead  of  flow- 
ing over  the  flat  or,  better  still,  hollowed 
surface  the  tongue  should  make  of  itself,  to 
issue  an  unobstructed  column  of  tone  into 
the  mouth,  to  be  moulded  by  the  lips,  teeth, 
and  tip  of  the  tongue  into  beautiful  speech- 
forms.  This  opposition  of  the  back  of  the 
tongue  must  be  fought  patiently,  persistently, 
and  steadily  until  the  unruly  member  is  con- 
quered. Mirror  in  hand,  stand  with  a  good 
light  on  the  open  mouth.  Now  concentrate 
your  eyes  and  thought  on  the  back  of  the 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

tongue.  Then  yawn,  drinking  in  the  breath, 
and  with  the  tip  of  the  tongue  pressed  against 
your  teeth,  let  your  thought  suck  down  the 
back  of  the  tongue  until  it  forms  a  little  hol- 
low instead  of  the  obstructing  mound.  If 
you  find  response  slow  to  this  treatment,  if 
the  thought  "down"  does  not  result  in  the 
concave  tongue,  touch  the  obstinate  part  with 
the  tip  of  a  pencil  or  any  pointed  instrument 
as  you  think  the  word  "ah."  Now  try  the 
syllable  /a,  /a,  /a,  if  necessary,  touching  the 
tongue  at  the  back  as  you  speak.  Nothing 
but  patient,  persistent  practice,  glass  in  hand, 
will  carry  us  successfully  past  this  point  in 
our  difficult  task  of  freeing  the  channel. 
To  put  these  directions  in  exercise  form : 
First. — Yawn,  thinking,  the  back  of  the 
t0ngue  down,  as  you  press  the  tip  against 
\  jyour  teeth. 

*\/     Second. — Touch  the  back  of  the  tongue 
with  a  pencil  as  you  think,  or  even  say,  ah. 
Third. — Try  the  syllable  /a,  /a,  la  la,  think- 
ing, the  back  of  the  tongue  down,  or  touching 
it,  if  necessary. 


Ill 

LEARNING   TO    RE-ENFORCE   THE   TONE 

AND  now  we  turn  from  the  second  step 
in  the  training  to  the  third  and  last 
step — the  re-enforcing  of  the  supported  and 
freed  tone.  It  is  again  a  freeing  process. 
This  time  we  are  to  free  the  cavities  now 
closed  against  the  tone;  we  are  to  use  the 
walls  of  these  cavities  as  sounding-boards  for 
tone,  as  they  were  designed  to  be,  so  re-en- 
forcing the  tone  and  letting  it  issue  a  reso- 
nant, bell-like  note  with  the  carrying  power 
resonance  alone  can  give,  instead  of  the  thin, 
dull,  colorless  sound  which  conveys  no  life  to 
the  word  into  which  it  is  moulded  by  the 
organs  of  speech.  How  shall  we  free  these 
cavities  ?  I  find  myself  now  impatient  of  the 
medium  of  communication  we  are  using.  I 
want  to  make  the  tone  for  you.  I  want,  for 
27 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

instance,  to  shut  off  the  nasal  cavity  and  let 
you  hear  the  resultant  nasal  note,  thin,  high, 
unresonant,  which  hardly  reaches  the  first 
member  of  my  audience;  then  I  want  you 
to  hear  the  tone  flood  into  the  nasal  cavity, 
and,  re-enforced  there  by  the  vibration  from 
the  walls  of  the  cavity,  grow  a  resonant, 
ringing,  bell -like  note,  which  will  carry  to 
the  farthest  corner  of  the  room  without  the 
least  increase  in  loudness.  But  we  must 
be  content  with  the  conditions  imposed  by 
print. 

First,  you  must  realize  that  so-called  "  talk- 
ing through  the  nose ' '  is  not  talking  through 
the  nose  at  all,  but  rather  failure  to  do  so— 
that  is,  instead  of  letting  the  tone  flood  into 
the  nasal  cavity,  to  be  re-enforced  there  by 
striking  against  the  walls  of  the  cavity,  which 
act  as  sounding-boards  for  the  tone  confined 
within  that  cavity,  we  shut  off  the  cavity,  and 
refuse  the  tone  its  natural  re-enforcement. 
It  takes  on,  as  a  result,  a  thin,  unresonant 
quality  which  we  call  nasal,  although  it  is 
thin  and  unpleasing  because  it  lacks  true 
nasal  resonance.  The  only  remedy  lies  in 
28 


LEARNING  TO  RE-ENFORCE  THE  TONE 

ceasing  to  shut  off  the  cavity.  Think  the 
sound  66.  Let  the  tone  on  which  it  is  to  be  \ 
borne  grow  slowly  in  thought,  filling,  fill-  \ 
ing,  and,  as  it  grows,  flooding  the  whole  face. 
Let  it  press  against  your  lips  (in  thought 
only  as  yet),  feel  your  nostrils  expand,  your 
face  grow  alive  between  the  eyes  and  the 
upper  lip,  that  area  so  often  inanimate,  life- 
less, even  in  a  mobile,  animated  countenance. 
Now  let  the  sound  come,  but  let  it  follow  the 
thought,  flood  the  face,  let  the  nostrils  ex- 
pand, feel  the  nasal  cavity  fill  with  sound; 
let  it  go  on  up  into  the  head  and  strike  the 
forehead  and  the  eye-sockets  and  the  walls 
of  all  the  cavities  so  unused  to  the  impact  of 
sound,  which  should  never  have  been  shut 
out.  Now  begin,  with  lips  closed,  a  hum-  \ 
ming  note,  m-m-m.  Let  it  come  flooding 
into  the  face,  until  it  presses  against  the 
lips,  demanding  the  open  mouth.  Now  let 
it  open  the  mouth  into  the  ah.  Repeat 
this  over  and  over  —  m-ah,  m-ah,  m-ah. 
Don't  let  the  tone  drop  back  as  the  mouth 
opens.  Keep  it  forward  behind  the  upper  \ 
lip,  which  it  has  made  full,  and  which,  play- 
29 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

ing  against,  it  tickles  until  we  must  let  the 
tone  escape.  Just  as  much  of  the  day  as 
possible,  think  the  tone  in  a  flood  into  the 
face,  and  as  often  as  possible  hum  and  let 
it  escape,  noting  its  increasing  resonance.  It 
will  increase  in  resonance,  I  promise  you.  It 
will  lose  its  thin,  high-pitched  nasal  quality, 
and  grow  mellow  and  rich  and  ringing. 

And  so,  with  chest  lifted,  diaphragm  at 
work,  throat  open,  tongue  flat,  jaws  relaxed, 
and  all  the  cavities  concerned  in  vocalization 
open  to  the  tone,  as  you  breathe  and  yawn 
and  hum,  let  it  issue  a  full,  round,  resonant, 
singing  note  to  add  itself  to  the  music  of  the 
world. 


PART  II 
THE  TECHNIQUE  OF  THE  INSTRUMENT 


DISCUSSION 

WE  leave,  then,  the  question  of  the  tuning 
of  the  instrument  to  turn  to  a  considera- 
tion of  its  technique  when  tuned.  I  invite 
you  to  enter  with  me  upon  a  study  of  the 
vocal  interpretation  of  literature,  through 
which,  as  I  have  said,  the  voice,  put  to  its 
highest  use,  may  be  made  the  beautiful  agent 
of  personality  it  is  intended  to  be.  This 
term,  "  vocal  interpretation  of  literature," 
has  been  criticised  as  a  sesqmrje^aj.iajijyvay  of  / 
designating  the  good,  old-fashioned  exercise, 
"reading  aloud."  I  wish  the  criticism  were 
pertinent.  It  is  not,  because  however  identi- 
cal in  theory  these  exercises  may  be,  in  prac- 
tice they  are  horribly  opposed.  So  far  apart 
are  they,  indeed,  that  we  are  told  to  beware 
of  the  reader  who  calls  himself  an  "Inter- 
33 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

preter."  On  the  contrary,  we  should  beware 
of  the  reader  who  has  not  established  his 
claim  to  be  an  interpreter.  The  only  excuse 
in  the  world  for  the  existence  of  a  reader  lies 
in  the  possession  of  superior  powers  of  inter- 
pretation. Unless  I  can  make  clear  what 
must  otherwise  for  some  remain  obscure, 
make  beautiful  what  otherwise  for  some  must 
remain  commonplace,  make  alive  what  other- 
wise for  some  must  lie  dead  on  the  printed 
page,  I,  as  a  reader,  have  no  reason  for  being. 
To  do  any  or  all  of  these  things  is  precisely 
to  be  an  interpreter.  However,  we  are  en- 
tering upon  this  study  of  interpretation,  not 
with  the  idea  of  becoming  public  readers,  but 
with  the  intention  of  perfecting  our  voices. 

There  is  a  theory  that  it  is  dangerous  to 
go  beyond  the  mere  freeing  of  the  instrument 
in  either  vocal  or  physical  training.  In  ac- 
cordance with  this  theory  I  was  advised  by 
a  well-known  actress  to  confine  my  study 
for  the  stage,  so  far  as  the  vocal  and  panto- 
mimic preparation  was  concerned,  to  singing, 
dancing,  and  fencing.  "Get  your  voice  and 
body  under  control,"  she  said,  "make  them 
34 


DISCUSSION 

free,  but  don't  connect  shades  of  thought  and 
emotion  with  definite  tones  of  the  voice  or 
movements  of  the  body;  don't  meddle  with 
Delsarte  or  elocution."  This  advice  seemed 
good  at  the  time.  It  still  seems  to  me  that 
it  ought  to  be  the  right  method.  But  I  have 
grown  to  distrust  it.  One  of  the  chief  sources 
of  my  distrust  has  been  the  effect  of  the 
theory  upon  the  art  of  the  actress  who  gave 
the  advice.  She  is  perhaps  the  most  grace- 
ful woman  on  the  stage  to-day,  and  her  voice 
is  pure  music.  But  her  gestures  and  tones 
fail  in  lucidity ;  they  fail  to  illumine  the  text 
of  the  part  she  essays  to  interpret.  One 
grows  suddenly  impatient  of  the  meaningless 
grace  of  her  movements,  the  meaningless 
music  of  her  voice.  One  longs  for  a  swift — 
if  studied — stride  across  the  stage  in  anger, 
instead  of  the  unstudied  grace  of  her  glide 
in  swirling-robed  protest.  One  longs  to  hear 
a  staccato  declaration  of  intention,  instead 
of  the  cadenced  music  of  a  voice  guiltless 
of  intention.  No!  after  the  body  has  been 
made  a  free  and  responsive  agent,  a  mas- 
tery of  certain  fundamental  laws,  a  mastery 
35 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

of  certain  principles  of  gesture  in  accordance 
with  the  dictates  of  thought  and  emotion  is 
necessary  to  its  further  perfecting  as  a  vivid, 
powerful,  and  true  agent  of  personality.  The 
action  must  be  suited  to  the  word,  the  word 
to  the  action,  through  a  study  of  the  laws 
governing  expression  in  action. 

So  with  the  voice:  to  become  not  only  a 
free  instrument,  but  a  beautiful  and  power- 
ful means  of  expression  and  commnuicatiori, 
it  must  learn  to  recognize  and  obey  certain 
fundamental  laws  governing  its  modulations. 
A  master  of  verbal  expression  is  distin- 
guished by  his  vast  vocabulary  of  words  and 
his  skill  and  discrimination  in  its  use.  A 
master  of  vocal  expression  must  acquire  what 
we  may  call  a  vocal  vocabulary,  consisting  of 
changes  of  pitch,  varieties  of  inflection,  and 
variations  in  tone-color,  and  must  know  how 
to  use  these  elements  with  skill  and  discrimi- 
nation. It  is  through  a  study  of  the  vocal 
interpretation  of  literature  that  such  a  vo- 
cabulary is  to  be  acquired.  To  learn  to  com- 
mand at  will  the  changes  of  pitch  and  varia- 
tions of  inflection  and  tone-color  which  subtle 
36 


DISCUSSION 

shades  of  thought  and  feeling  demand,  is  the 
final  step  to  be  mastered  in  training  the  voice. 
I  have  long  held  that  a  substitution  of 
vocal  interpretation  of  literature  for  a  large 
proportion  of  the  subjects  now  taught  in  our 
public  schools  would  solve  an  equal  propor- 
tion of  the  problems  confronting  our  educa- 
tors. I  believe  this  study,  properly  con-  Jf 
ducted,  involves  the  finest  kind  of  mental, 
emotional,  physical,  and  ethical  discipline. 
I  believe  that  a  child  put  into  training  at  six, 
in  a  school  which  made  this  subject  the  be- 
ginning and  end  and  main  body  of  its  cur- 
riculum, would  find  himself  at  sixteen,  with  . 
mind  disciplined,  imagination  untrammelled, 
emotions  free,  controlled,  and  unafraid,  voice 
and  body  responsive  agents,  and  with 
"knowledge  absolute,  subject  to  no  dispute," 
of  his  own  bent  and  an  eager  enthusiasm  in 
pursuing  it.  Do  not  dismiss  this  as  the  ex- 
travagance of  an  enthusiast.  At  least,  re- 
serve judgment  until  you  have  traced  with 
me  the  process  of  transferring  through  the 
voice  (vocally  interpreting)  real  thought  (lit- 
erature) from  the  printed  page  to  the  mind 
37 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

of  an  auditor.  The  main  object  of  the  exer- 
cise will  be,  of  course,  to  mark  its  effect  upon 
the  voice.  But  in  order  to  establish  the 
broader  claim  I  am  making  for  the  study,  I 
ask  you  to  consider,  as  well,  the  mental, 
emotional,  and  ethical  training  involved.  It 
would,  indeed,  be  difficult  to  study  one  with- 
out the  other,  since  it  is  the  play  of  an  elastic 
mind,  controlled  emotion,  and  a  quickened 
spirit  upon  the  voice  which  is  to  make  the 
free  and  responsive  instrument  an  effective 
agent.  It  is  through  the  process  of  which  we 
are  about  to  make  a  study  that  the  mind  is 
made  elastic,  the  emotions  set  free,  and  the 
spirit  quickened.  It  is  the  act  of  intense 
concentration  and  strong  transition  demand- 
ed of  the  mind  by  this  process  which  will 
deepen  and  broaden  its  action;  it  is  the 
swift  response  and  perfect  control  demanded 
of  the  emotions  by  this  process  which  will 
steady  and  free  their  play ;  it  is  the  constant 
dwelling  in  an  atmosphere  of  truth  and 
beauty  demanded  of  the  spirit  by  this  proc- 
ess which  will  quicken  its  life.  These  effects 
upon  mind,  heart,  soul,  and  voice  are  simul- 
38 


DISCUSSION 

taneous,  and  cannot  be  separated  out  in  our 
study  of  the  act  which  produces  them.  Then, 
in  entering  upon  this  step  in  vocal  training, 
let  us  mentally  drive  a  four-in-hand. 

We  must  begin  by  choosing  a  passage 
for  interpretation.  What  shall  govern  our 
choice?  It  must  be  a  passage  worth  inter- 
preting, or  we  shall  not  be  dealing  with  lit- 
erature, and  so  shall  not  meet  the  require- 
ments of  our  title.  To  be  worth  interpreting, 
it  must  possess  one  or  combine  all  of  these 
three  attributes — beauty,  truth,  and  power. 
And  here  at  once,  as  a  point  in  our  minor 
claim,  note  the  ethical  training  demanded  of 
the  student  by  this  subject.  Surely  to  dwell 
appreciatively  many  hours  of  each  day  in  an 
atmosphere  charged  with  beauty,  truth,  and 
power  is  to  be  quickened  spiritually  or  to 
be  a  dull  clod  indeed. 

How  will  this  passage  from  Emerson's  es- 
say on  Friendship  do  for  our  experiment: 

"Our  friendships  hurry  to  short  and  poor  con- 
clusions, because  we  have  made  them  a  texture  of 
wine  and  dreams,  instead  of  the  tough  fibre  of  the 
human  heart." 

39 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

It  is  certainly  truth  beautifully  and  pow- 
erfully expressed.  Surely  it  will  serve.  And 
here  I  should  like  to  stop  and  discuss  with 
you  that  vital  question  of  choosing  literature 
for  children,  according  to  temperament  and 
age — but  another  time,  perhaps. 

Having  read  the  passage  under  considera- 
tion cursorily  (as  is  the  custom  in  reading 
to  one's  self  to-day),  will  you  now  study  it  for 
a  moment  very  closely?  Now,  once  more, 
please,  read  it  silently,  noting  the  action  of 
your  mind  as  you  read.  ("  Watch  its  pul- 
sations," Dr.  Curry  would  say.)  And  now 
aloud,  although  without  an  auditor,  read  it, 
this  time  noting  the  effect  of  the  action  of 
the  mind  upon  your  voice.  Did  its  pitch 
change  ?  Where  and  why  ?  How  did  you  in- 
flect the  words  "wine  and  dreams"?  How 
did  the  inflection  of  these  words  differ  from 
that  of  the  last  six  words,  "tough  fibre  of 
the  human  heart,"  with  which  they  are  con- 
trasted in  thought?  Did  your  tone  change 
color  at  any  point?  Why?  Where?  But 
now,  once  more,  let  us  approach  the  passage, 
this  time  with  a  different  intention.  Let  us 
40 


DISCUSSION 

study  it  with  the  idea  of  interpreting  it  for 
another  mind.  Now  the  method  of  attack 
is  very  different.  Not  that  it  ought  to  be 
different!  But  it  is.  Intense  concentration 
ought  to  characterize  all  our  reading,  whether 
its  object  be  to  acquire  knowledge  or  pleasure 
for  one's  self,  or  to  impart  either  to  another. 
But  the  day  of  reading  which  "maketh  a  full 
man"  seems  to  be  long  past,  so  far  as  the 
general  public  is  concerned.  The  necessity 
of  skimming  the  pages  of  a  dozen  fourth- 
rate  books  of  the  hour,  in  order  to  be  at  least 
a  lucid  interlocutor  and  so  a  desired  dinner 
guest,  is  making  our  reading  a  swift  gathering 
of  colorless  impressions  which  may  remain  a 
week  or  only  a  day,  and  which  leave  no  last- 
ing effect  of  beauty  or  truth  upon  the  mind 
and  heart  of  the  reader.  Should  it  not  be 
rather  an  intense  application  of  the  mind  to 
the  thought  of  a  master-mind,  until  that 
thought,  in  all  its  power  and  beauty,  has 
broadened  the  boundaries  of  the  reader's 
mind  and  enlarged  the  meaning  of  all  his 
thoughts  ?  I  wonder  if  a  much  smaller  pro- 
portion of  time  spent  in  such  reading  might 
41 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

not  result  in  a  less  "bromidic"  social  atmos- 
phere even  though  its  tendency  were  a  bit 
serious.  Who  knows? 

But  let  us  return  to  Emerson  on  Friend- 
ship. In  studying  this  thought  for  the  pur- 
pose of  interpreting  it  vocally,  the  concen- 
tration of  the  attention  must  be  intense, 
because  I  must  make  it  absolutely  my  own 
before  I  can  present  it  to  you.  It  must,  for 
the  moment,  possess  me.  It  must  seem,  for 
the  time,  to  be  a  creation  of  my  own  brain. 
It  must  belong  to  me  as  only  the  created 
thing  can.  Until  I  have  so  recreated  the1 
thought,  it  is  not  mine  to  give.  Now  read 
the  passage  silently  with  this  idea  of  making 
it  your  own.  Pour  upon  it  the  light  of  your 
experience,  your  philosophy,  your  ideals,  your 
perception  of  truth.  Comment  upon  it  si- 
lently as  you  read.  Now  read  it  aloud  and 
let  your  voice  do  this  commenting.  But 
wait  a  moment.  Let  me  quote  for  you  the 
paragraph  following  this  statement: 

"  The  laws  of  friendship  are  austere  and  eternal, 
of  one  web  with  the  laws  of  nature  and  of  morals. 
But  we  have  aimed  at  a  swift  and  petty  benefit, 
42 


DISCUSSION 

to  suck  a  sudden  sweetness.  We  snatch  at  the 
slowest  fruit  in  the  whole  garden  of  God,  which 
many  summers  and  many  winters  must  ripen." 

This  is  Emerson's  paraphrase  of  his  original 
statement.  How  much  of  it  did  your  mental 
commentary  include?  How  did  your  silent 
paraphrase  resemble  this  ?  Read  the  original 
passage  again  to  yourself  in  the  light  of  this 
paraphrase.  I  shall  ask  you  now  to  repeat 
the  first  sentence  from  memory,  for  you  will 
find,  after  this  concentrated  contemplation 
of  a  thought,  that  its  form  is  fixed  fast  in 
your  mind.  That  is  a  delightful  accompani- 
ment of  this  kind  of  reading.  The  form  of 
the  thought,  if  it  be  apposite  (which  it  must 
be  to  be  literature,  and  we  are  considering 
only  literature),  the  form  of  a  thought  so 
approached  stays  with  us  in  all  its  beauty. 

Let  us  then  repeat  the  original  statement, 
having  read  the  passage  in  which  Emerson 
has  elaborated  it.  Now,  what  you  must  de- 
mand of  your  voice  is  this:  that  it  shall  so 
handle  the  single  introductory  sentence  as  to 
suggest  the  rest  of  the  paragraph.  In  other 
words,  your  voice  must  do  the  paraphrasing, 
43 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

'by  means  of  its  changes  in  pitch,  its  inflec- 
tions, and  its  variations  in  tone-color.  Once 
more  read  the  sentence  casually  as  you  did 
at  first,  as  a  mere  statement  of  fact,  and  then 
again  in  this  paraphrastical  manner.  Watch, 
watch,  watch  the  voice.  Mark  the  growth 
of  its  light  and  shade  with  the  second  reading. 
We  must  not  lose  sight  of  our  minor  claim. 
But  the  mental  and  ethical  training  involved 
has  been  too  obvious,  I  am  sure,  to  have 
escaped  us.  We  need  go  back  for  but  a  mo- 
ment to  renote  it.  The  intense  concentra- 
tion and  strong  transition  of  thought  required 
of  the  mind,  in  mastering  a  text  for  the  pur- 
pose of  interpretation,  afford  keen  intellectual 
exercise.  The  underlying  idea  in  approach- 
ing a  passage  full  of  truth  and  beauty, 
that  the  knowledge  or  pleasure  I  gain  from 
it  is  not  for  the  purpose  of  self -gratification, 
but  that  I  may  share  it  with  another,  is  of 
great  ethical  value.  Especially  is  this  true 
in  teaching  children  the  laws  of  vocal  ex- 
pression. 


II 

STUDY    IN    CHANGE   OF    PITCH 

I ET  us  now  confine  our  work  to  a  study  in 
L*  change  of  pitch,  which  is  the  fundamental 
element  of  the  vocal  vocabulary  we  are  en- 
deavoring to  acquire.  Had  I  an  actual  class 
before  me,  I  should  now  divide  your  voices 
into  groups  according  to  the  varying  degrees 
of  gray  ness.  As  it  is,  I  must  treat  you  all 
as  monotones.  For  our  present  purpose  we 
should  choose  a  passage  which,  to  be  intelli- 
gently interpreted,  demands  marked  changes 
of  pitch.  Robert  Browning  affords  the  best 
material  of  this  kind,  because  of  his  sudden 
and  long-sustained  parentheses,  which  can  be 
handled  lucidly  by  the  voice  only  after  it  has 
mastered  this  fundamental  element  of  a  vo- 
cal vocabulary.  Let  us  take  the  first  stanza 
45 


THE    SPEAKING  ?VO  ICE 

and  the  first  line  of  the  second  stanza  of 
"Abt  Vogler": 

4 'Would   that  the  structure  brave,  the  manifold 

music  I  build, 
Bidding   my  organ   obey,  calling   its  keys  to 

their  work, 
Claiming  each  slave  of  the  sound,  at  a  touch,  as 

when  Solomon  willed 
Armies  of  angels  that  soar,  legions  of  demons 

that  lurk, 

Man,  brute,  reptile,  fly — alien  of  end  and  of  aim, 
Adverse,  each  from   the  other  heaven -high, 

hell-deep  removed,   \ 
Should  rush  into  sight  at  once  as  he  named  the 

ineffable  Name, 

And  pile  him  a  palace  straight,  to  pleasure 
the  princess  he  loved! 

"  Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  build- 
ing of  mine — " 

Remember,  we  are  to  confine  our  consid- 
eration to  the  one  point,  "change  of  pitch," 
not  the  change  of  pitch  within  a  word,  which 
is  inflection  and  belongs  to  another  chapter, 
but  to  the  broad  changes  of  pitch  from  word 
to  word,  phrase  to  phrase,  sentence  to  sen- 
tence, following  the  intricate  changes  of  the 
thought.  With  this  end  in  mind,  let  us  first 
46 


STUDY    IN    CHANGE    OF    PITCH 

blaze  a  trail  through  this  forest  of  ideas.  Let 
us  find  the  main  road  and  then  trace  the  by- 
paths which  lead  away  from  that  main  road, 
and  in  this  case  fortunately  come  back  to  it 
again — which  does  not  always  happen  in  Mr. 
Browning's  "  woody  tracts  of  thought."  To 
employ  a  better  figure  for  vocal  purposes,  let 
us  cut  off  the  stream,  the  voice,  and  trace  the 
bed  of  this  river  of  thought,  following  the 
main  channel,  and  then  its  branches.  We 
find  the  main  channel  cut  by  the  first  and 
last  lines: 

"  Would  that  the  structure    brave,  the  manifold 
music  I  build, 

Would  it  might  tarry  like  his,  the  beautiful  build- 
ing of  mine — " 

All  between,  beginning  with  the  second  line, 
"  Bidding  my  organ  obey,"  and  including  the 
last  words  of  the  eighth  line,  "the  princess 
he  loved,"  is  a  branch  channel,  leading  away 
from  and  coming  back  to  the  main  river's 
bed.  But  this  branch  channel  is  interrupted 
in  turn  by  its  own  branch  leading  away  from 
47 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

it  and  returning  with  it  to  join  the  main  bed 
with  the  last  line  we  quote.  This  second 
branch  begins  in  the  middle  of  the  third  line 
with  the  words,  "as  when  Solomon  willed," 
wanders  in  this  course  for  five  lines,  and, 
rejoining  the  first  offshoot,  returns  to  the 
main  channel  with  the  last  line.  Now  let  us 
turn  on  the  stream,  the  voice,  and  watch  it 
flow  into  the  course  as  traced.  What  hap- 
pens ?  Dropping  the  figure,  the  voice  starts 
on  a  certain  pitch,  determined  by  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  main  thought,  modified  by  the 
parentheses.  If  the  main  thought  were  not 
interrupted,  the  original  pitch  might  be  much 
lower.  But  we  must  make  allowance  for  the 
necessity  of  dropping  the  voice  for  each  of 
the  two  parentheses.  We  must,  therefore, 
start  on  a  comparatively  high  pitch,  from 
which  we  may  depart  easily  at  the  end  of 
the  first  line,  where  the  secondary  thought 
begins,  and  to  which  we  return,  after  a  sec- 
ond drop,  with  the  last  line,  which  resumes 
the  main  thought.  Let  us  try  this.  Carry  the 
exact  pitch,  with  which  you  start,  over  the 
parentheses,  and  begin  the  last  line  on  the 
48 


STUDY    IN    CHANGE    OF    PITCH 

original  pitch.  Can  you  do  it  ?  If  you  can 
you  are  not  a  monotone.  But  you  may  need 
the  exercise  just  the  same,  for  there  are  many 
degrees  of  dulness  in  tone.  Now  let  us  take 
up  the  parentheses.  The  first  one  begins 
with  the  second  line.  The  voice  must  drop 
on  the  words,  "Bidding  my  organ  obey,"  to 
a  lower  pitch,  indicating  instantly  the  inter- 
ruption of  the  thought. ;  Hold  this  pitch 
through  the  second  line  and  until  the  last 
four  words  of  the  third  line.  With  these 
words,  "as  when  Solomon  willed,"  the  voice 
falls  upon  the  second  interruption,  which  it 
must  denote  by  a  corresponding  second  drop 
in  pitch.  This  it  pursues  until  it  reaches  the 
last  line,  where  it  resumes  the  original  pitch 
with  the  original  thought.  Try  this.  These 
are  only  the  broad  changes  from  sentence  to 
sentence.  There  are  lesser  changes  from 
phrase  to  phrase,  partly  for  the  sake  of  va- 
riety alone,  as  in  the  second  and  third  lines, 
where  the  pitch  changes  after  "obey,"  runs 
through  the  next  six  words,  "  calling  its  keys 
to  their  work,"  and  returns  again  on,  "  Claim- 
ing each  slave  of  the  sound."  There  is  also 
49 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

a  momentary  lift  of  the  voice  on  the  three 
words  "at  a  touch,"  dropping  to  the  second 
broad  change  with  the  next  words,  "as  when 
Solomon  willed."  Try  this  more  detailed 
treatment  of  the  first  parenthesis.  Taking 
up  the  second  interruption  for  this  closer 
study:  The  parenthesis  begins  with  the  last 
three  words  of  the  third  line,  as  we  have 
said.  The  voice  starting  with  this  second 
drop  in  pitch,  plays  about  the  level  of  that 
pitch  from  phrase  to  phrase  through  five 
lines,  but  it  also  changes  from  word  to  word, 
as  on  the  four  closing  the  fifth  line,  "Man, 
brute,  reptile,  fly,"  and  this  time  merely  for 
the  sake  of  variety.  Remember,  whatever 
the  departure,  it  must  always  follow  the 
parenthetical  thought,  bringing  it  back  by 
resuming  the  original  pitch,  from  which  it 
departed  to  indicate  the  interruption. 

Will  you  not  diagram  these  nine  lines? 
Simply  write  the  verse  as  prose,  and  then 
mark  it  for  change  of  pitch.  Call  the  orig- 
inal pitch  C,  the  first  broad  change  B,  the 
second  broad  change  A.  Denote  the  changes 
within  the  parentheses  by  sharps  and  flats. 
5° 


STUDY  IN  CHANGE  OF  PfTCH 

For  instance,  would  not  the  pitch  of  the  last 
three  words  of  the  second  line  be  indicated 
correctly  by  marking  it  B -sharp?  But  do 
not  stop  with  the  diagram.  Begin  and  end 
by  testing  the  voice.  Make  it  follow  the 
changes  you  indicate  on  the  diagram,  until  it 
masters  the  subtlest  of  them.  Through  such 
practice  alone  can  you  hope  to  increase  the 
light  and  shade  upon  which  the  voice  depends 
for  its  final  beauty  as  an  agent  of  personality. 


Ill 

STUDY    IN   INFLECTION 

TO  me,  the  most  notable  among  the  many 
notable  elements  in  Madame  Alia  Nazi- 
mo  va's  marvellous  acting  is  her  illumination 
of  the  text  of  her  impersonations  through 
inflection.  To  an  ear  unaccustomed  to  the 
"broken  music"  of  her  speech,  a  word  may 
now  and  then  be  lost  because  of  her  still 
faulty  English,  but  of  her  attitude  toward 
the  thought  she  is  uttering,  or  the  person  she 
is  addressing,  or  the  situation  she  is  meet- 
ing, there  can  never  be  a  moment's  doubt- 
so  illuminating  is  the  inflectional  play  of  her 
voice.  The  tone  she  uses  is  not  to  me  pleas- 
ing in  quality.  It  does  not  fall  in  liquid  al- 
luring cadences  upon  the  ear  as  does  Miss 
Marlowe's,  for  instance.  It  is  always  keyed 
high,  whether  the  child- wife  Nora,  or  Hedda. 
52 


STUDY    IN    INFLECTION 

omnivorous  of  experience,  is  speaking.  But 
this  high-pitched  tone  is  endlessly  volatile. 
It  is  restless.  It  never  lets  your  attention 
wander.  It  is  never  monotonous.  It  is  a 
master  of  inflection.  Madame  Nazimova's 
emotion  is  always  primarily  intellectual.  It 
always  proceeds  from  a  mind  keenly  alive 
to  the  instant's  incident.  This  intensely  in- 
tellectual temperament  reveals  itself  through 
her  voice  in  a  rare  degree  of  inflectional  agil- 
ity. This  element  alone  makes  her  work,  tq 
me,  more  stimulating  than  any  I  have  ever 
known  except  Madame  Duse's.  Recall  the 
revelation  of  Nora's  soul  in  her  cry:  "It  is 
not  possible!  It  is  not  possible!"  Madame 
Nazimova's  conception  of  the  mistress  of 
"The  Doll's  House"  is  concentrated  in  these 
four  words — in  her  inflection  of  the  last  word, 
I  may  almost  say.  When  I  close  my  eyes 
and  think  of  Madame  Nazimova's  voice,  I  / 
see  a  grove  of  soft  maples  in  early  October  I 
with  the  sun  playing  upon  them ;  while  Miss 
Marlowe's  tone  carries  me  at  once  into  the 
pine  woods,  where  a  white  birch  now  and 
then  shimmers  its  yellow  leaves.  Again, 
53 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

the  voice  of  the  Russian  actress  suggests  a 
handful  of  diamonds,  and  the  American  in- 
strument a  set  of  turquoise  in  the  matrix. 
The  difference  in  these  two  agents  of  two 
compelling  personalities  is,  of  course,  the  re- 
sult of  a  difference  in  the  two  temperaments , 
but  undoubtedly  it  also  arises  from  a  dif- 
ference in  methods  of  training.  Whatever 
the  temperament,  light  and  shade  can  be 
developed  in  the  voice  through  practice  of 
inflection;  and  whatever  the  temperament, 
a  pure  tone  can  be  secured  through  a  mastery 
of  support  of  breath  and  freedom  of  vocal 
conditions.  The  voices  of  these  two  actresses 
vividly  illustrate  these  two  points.  We  have 
studied  how  to  secure  Miss  Marlowe's  tone. 
We  are  now  to  work  for  Madame  Nazimova's 
light  and  shade,  so  far  as  a  mastery  of  in- 
flection will  secure  it.  How  shall  we  pro- 
ceed? 

"All  my  life,"  writes  Ellen  Terry,  in  her 
entrancing  memoirs,  "the  thing  which  has 
struck  me  as  wanting  on  the  stage  is  variety. 
Some  people  are  tone  deaf,  and  they  find  it 
physically  impossible  to  observe  the  law  of 
54 


STUDY    IN    INFLECTION 

contrasts.  But  even  a  physical  deficiency 
can  be  overcome  by  that  faculty  of  taking 
infinite  pains."  That  is  the  secret  of  suc- 
cessful acquisition  in  any  direction,  is  it  not 
— the  "faculty  of  taking  infinite  pains"? 
With  Ellen  Terry  it  resulted  in  a  voice  which 
in  its  prime  estate  suggested,  it  is  said,  all 
the  riotous  colors  of  all  the  autumns,  or 
Henry  Ward  Beecher's  most  varied  collec- 
tion of  precious  stones.  We  can  secure  an 
approximate  result  by  employing  the  same 
method.  Let  us  proceed  with  "infinite 
pains"  to  practise,  practise,  practise  in- 
flection. 

Let  us  first  examine  this  "change  of  pitch » 
within  a  word"  which  we  call  inflection.' 
How  does  the  pitch  change,  and  why,  and 
what  does  the  change  indicate?  We  have 
discovered  that  a  change  of  thought  results 
in  a  broad  change  of  pitch  from  word  to 
word,  phrase  to  phrase,  sentence  to  sentence, 
and  we  shall  discover  that  a  change  in  emo- 
tion results  in  a  change  in  the  color  of  the 
tone  we  are  using;  but  this  element  of  our 
vocal  vocabulary,  inflection,  is  subtler  than. 
55 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

either  of  the  other  two.  While  change  of 
pitch  is  an  intellectual  modulation,  and  varia- 
tion in  tone-color  is  an  emotional  modulation, 
inflection,  in  a  degree,  combines  both.  It 
is  a  change  in  both  color  and  key  within  the 
word.  It  is  primarily  of  intellectual  signifi- 
cance, but  it  also  reveals  certain  tempera- 
mental characteristics  which  cannot  be  dis- 
associated with  emotion.  For  instance,  the 
staccato  utterance  of  Mrs.  Fiske  is  techni- 
cally the  result  of  her  use  of  straight,  swift- 
falling  inflections,  but  it  is  temperamentally 
the  result  of  thinking  and  feeling  in  terms 
of  Becky  Sharp. 

Let  us  see  how  inflections  vary.  They  rise 
and  fall  swiftly  or  slowly.  They  move  in  a 
straight  line  from  point  to  point,  or  make  a 
curve.  (The  latter  we  call  circumflex  in- 
flection.) They  make  various  angles  with 
the  original  level  of  pitch,  rising  or  falling 
abruptly  or  gradually.  These  are  some  of 
the  variations,  each  indicating  an  attitude 
of  the  mind  and  heart  of  the  speaker  toward 
the  thought,  or  toward  the  one  spoken  to,  or 
toward  the  circumstances  out  of  which  the 
56 


STUDY    IN    INFLECTION 

speech  arises.  All  must  be  mastered  for  use 
at  will  if  light  and  shade  are  to  be  developed 
in  the  voice. 

Now  let  us  take  a  phrase  or  sentence,  and 
voice  it  under  a  certain  condition,  noting  the 
inflection  of  the  word  or  words  which  hold 
the  thought  of  the  phrase  or  sentence  in  so- 
lution. Then  let  us  change  the  condition  and 
again  voice  the  thought,  noting  the  change 
in  inflection.  Let  me  propound  again  the 
profound  question  asked  in  our  first  lesson: 
Do  you  like  growing  old  ?  The  answers  will 
all  be  "yes"  or  "no."  But  what  of  the  in- 
flection of  those  monosyllabic  words  ?  Sweet 
Sixteen  will  employ  a  straight,  swift-falling 
inflection  on  the  affirmative  (unless  some  un- 
toward influence,  such  as  "Love  the  De- 
stroyer," has  embittered  her  life,  when  she 
may  give  us  one  of  May  Iverson's  adorable 
replies,  masked  in  indifference  and  circum- 
locution). Twenty  will  employ  the  straight- 
falling  inflection  without  the  swiftness  of 
Sweet  Sixteen's  slide.  With  twenty-five  we 
detect  a  faint  sign  of  a  curve  in  the  more 
gradual  fall.  Twenty-eight  to  thirty-five  em- 
57 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

ploys  various  degrees  of  circumflex,  accord- 
ing to  the  desire  —  or  possibility  —  of  con- 
cealing the  real  facts.  Forty  to  forty-five, 
if  in  defiant  mood,  employs  the  abrupt-fall- 
ing inflection,  or,  if  quite  honest,  changes  to 
the  negative  with  as  swift  and  straight  a 
fall.  This  lasts  through  sixty-five,  and  at 
seventy  we  hear  a  new  and  gentle  circumflex 
on  the  "no,"  until  the  pride  of  extreme  old 
age  sets  in  at  eighty-five  with  the  swift  fall 
of  Sixteen's  affirmative.  Were  it  not  ex- 
pedient to  maintain  friendly  relations  with 
one's  printer,  I  should  venture  to  diagram 
these  changes  of  tone  within  a  word.  As  it 
is,  I  shall  content  myself  with  advising  you 
to  do  so. 

It  is  my  privilege  to  have  had  acquaint- 
ance with  a  woman  who  was  a  personal 
friend  of  Emerson.  Among  the  incidents  of 
his  delightful  talk  to  her,  retold  to  me,  I  re- 
call one  which  bears  upon  our  present  prob- 
lem. They  were  discussing  mutual  "  Friends 
on  the  Shelf. ' '  "  Have  you  ever  read  Titan  T ' 
asked  the  gentle  seer.  "Yes,"  replied  the 
lady.  "Read  it  again!"  said  he.  Query  to 

58 


STUDY    IN    INFLECTION 

the  class:  How  did  the  lady  inflect  the  word 
"Yes"  to  call  forth  the  injunction,  "Read  it 
again" ?  What  did  her  inflection  reveal? 

However  inclined  we  may  be  to  quarrel 
with  Bernhardt's  conception  of  the  Duke  of 
Reichstadt,  we  can  never  forget  her  disclosure 
of  the  Eaglet's  frail  soul  through  inflection  as 
she  crushes  letter  after  letter  in  her  hand  and 
tosses  them  aside,  uttering  the  single  word, 
"Destroyed,"  and  the  final  revelation  in  the 
quick,  thrilling  curve  of  her  wonderful  voice  on 
the  same  word  as  the  little  cousin  leaves  the 
room  at  the  close  of  this  episode  of  the  letters. 

No  better  material  can  be  chosen  for  a 
study  of  inflection  than  the  paragraph  from 
Emerson's  "Friendship,"  quoted  in  a  pre- 
ceding chapter.  Let  us  repeat  the  first  sen- 
tence again.  "  Our  friendships  hurry  to  short 
and  poor  conclusions  because  we  have  made 
them  a  texture  of  wine  and  dreams  instead  of 
the  tough  fibre  of  the  human  heart."  Study, 
in  voicing  this,  how  to  illumine  the  thought 
by  your  contrastive  inflection  of  the  words 
"wine  and  dreams"  and  "tough  fibre  of  the 
human  heart."  A  lingering  circumflex  ca- 
59 


THE  SPEAKING  VOICE 

dence  in  uttering  the  first  two  words  will  sug- 
gest the  unstable  nature  of  a  friendship  woven 
out  of  so  frail  a  fabric  as  wine  and  dreams, 
while  a  swift,  strong,  straight-falling  inflec- 
tion on  each  of  the  last  six  words  indicates 
the  vigorous  growth  of  a  love  rooted  in  the 
tough  fibre  of  the  human  heart. 

In  "Monna  Vanna,"  Maurice  Maeterlinck 
gives  the  actress  a  superb  opportunity  to 
show  her  mastery  of  inflection.  Let  us  turn 
to  the  scene  in  Prinzivalle's  tent:1 

" PRINZIVALLE.  Are  you  in  pain? 

"VANNA.  No! 

"PRINZIVALLE.  Will  you  let  me  have  it  [her 
wound]  dressed? 

"VANNA.  No!     (Pause.} 

"  PRINZIVALLE.  You  are  decided  ? 

"VANNA.  Yes. 

"  PRINZIVALLE.  Need  I  recall  the  terms  of  the —  ? 

"  VANNA.  It  is  useless — I  know  them. 

"PRINZIVALLE.  Your  lord  consents. 

"VANNA.  Yes. 

"PRINZIVALLE.  It  is  my  mind  to  leave  you 
free.  .  .  . 

"There  is  yet  time  should  you  desire  to  re- 
nounce. .  .  . 

"VANNA.  No!" 

1  From  "Monna  Vanna."  By  Maurice  Maeterlinck. 
Published  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

60 


STUDY    IN    INFLECTION 

And  so  the  seeming  inquisition  proceeds. 
To  each  relentlessly  searching  interrogation 
from  Gianello  comes  Vanna's  unfaltering  re- 
ply, in  a  single,  swift  monosyllable,  "Yes" 
or  "No."  The  same  word,  but,  oh,  the  reve- 
lation which  may  lie  in  the  inflection  of  that 
word!  Let  us  try  it.  Let  us  read  the  scene 
aloud,  first  giving  as  nearly  as  possible  the 
same  inflection  to  each  of  Vanna's  answers, 
then  let  us  voice  it  again,  putting  into  the 
curve  of  the  tone  within  the  narrow  space  of 
the  two  or  three  lettered  monosyllables  all 
the  concentrated  mental  passion  of  Vanna's 
soul  in  its  attitude  toward  the  terrible  situa- 
tion and  toward  the  man  whom  she  believes 
to  be  her  enemy.  This  is  a  most  difficult 
exercise,  but  if  "a  man's  reach  should  exceed 
his  grasp,"  it  will  not  retard  our  progress 
toward  the  goal  of  a  vocal  vocabulary  to 
attempt  it  now.  Apart  from  all  aim  in  its 
pursuit,  there  is  no  more  fascinating  study 
than  this  study  of  inflection.  In  this  day  of 
artistic  photography  there  is  an  endless  in- 
terest for  the  artist  of  the  camera  in  playing 
with  a  subject's  expression  by  varying  the 
61 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

light  and  shade  thrown  upon  the  face.  So 
for  the  student  of  vocal  expression  there  is 
endless  interest  in  this  play,  with  the  thought 
behind  a  group  of  words,  by  varying  the  in- 
flection of  those  words.  Lady  Macbeth's, 
"We  fail!"  or  Macbeth's,  "If  it  were  done 
when  'tis  done,  then  'twere  well  it  were  done 
quickly,"  occurs  to  us,  of  course,  as  rich 
material  for  this  exercise. 

In  her  analysis  of  the  character  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  Mrs.  Jameson  gives  us  an  interest- 
ing "Study  in  Inflection,"  based  on  Mrs. 
Siddons's  interpretation  of  the  words  "We 
fail."  A  foot-note  reads:  "In  her  imperson- 
ation of  the  part  of  Lady  Macbeth,  Mrs. 
Siddons  adopted  successively  three  different 
intonations  in  giving  the  words  'we  fail.' 
At  first  a  quick,  contemptuous  interrogation 
— 'we  fail?'  Afterward  with  the  note  of 
admiration —  -' we  fail!'  and  an  accent  of 
indignant  astonishment  laying  the  principal 
emphasis  on  the  word  we — lwe  fail!'  Lastly, 
she  fixed  on  what  I  am  convinced  is  the  true 
reading — 'we  fail.' — with  the  simple  period, 
modulating  the  voice  to  a  deep,  low,  resolute 
62 


STUDY    IN    INFLECTION 

tone  which  settled  the  issue  at  once,  as  though 
she  had  said:  'If  we  fail,  why  then  we  fail, 
and  all  is  over.' ' 

Think  how  vitally  the  total  impersonation 
is  affected  by  your  choice  of  inflections  at 
this  point.  Compare  the  effects  of  the  three 
Mrs.  Siddons  tested.  Are  there  other  pos- 
sible intonations  of  the  words?  What  are 
they?  Do  you  realize  the  vital  effect  upon 
the  voice  of  such  vocal  analysis  and  ex- 
perimentation ?  Devote  ten  minutes  of  the 
time  you  take  for  reading  each  day  to  this 
phase  of  vocal  interpretation,  and  at  the 
end  of  a  week  note  its  effect  upon  your  silent 
reading  and  upon  your  voice. 

Remember,  with  inflection,  as  with  every 
other  phase  of  the  training,  the  greatest  im- 
mediate benefit  will  come  from  holding  the 
question  of  its  peculiar  significance  constant- 
ly in  mind.  Study  the  temperament  of  the 
people  about  you  by  noting  this  element  in 
their  speech.  Study  the  attitude  of  every 
interlocutor  you  face,  by  studying  the  in- 
flection of  his  replies  to  the  questions  of  life 
and  death  you  propound.  But,  above  all, 
63 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

study  your  own  use  of  this  element.  Do 
not  let  your  own  attitude  go  undetected. 
It  may  help  you  to  alter  an  unfortunate 
attitude  to  realize  its  effect  upon  your  own 
voice. 


IV 

STUDY    IN   TONE-COLOR 

A^D  now  we  must  turn  to  our  last  point 
of  discussion,  Tone-color.  What  is  the 
nature  of  this  element  of  our  vocabulary — 
this  Klangfarbe,  this  Timbre?  Upon  what 
does  it  depend  ?  You  will  say,  "  It  is  a  prop- 
erty of  the  voice  depending  upon  the  form 
of  the  vibrations  which  produce  the  tone." 
True!  And  physiologically  the  form  of  the 
vibrations  depends  upon  the  condition  of  the 
entire  vocal  apparatus.  Tone-color,  then,  is 
a  modulation  of  resonance.  But  what  con- 
cerns us  is  the  fact  that  it  is  an  emotional 
modulation  of  resonance.  What  concerns  us 
is  the  fact  that,  as  a  change  of  thought  in- 
stantly registers  itself  in  a  change  of  pitch, 
so  a  change  of  emotion  instantly  produces  a 
change  in  the  color  of  the  tone — if  the  voice 

65 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

is  a  free  instrument.  And  so,  as  before,  I 
want  you  not  to  think  of  the  physiological 
aspect,  but  to  yield  to  the  emotion,  noting 
the  character  of  the  resultant  tone,  regard- 
less of  what  has  happened  in  the  larynx  to 
produce  that  result. 

As  Browning  affords  us  the  best  material 
for  our  study  in  change  of  pitch,  so  the  poems 
of  Sidney  Lanier  offer  to  the  voice  the  rich- 
est field  for  exercise  in  tone-color.  Musician 
and  poet  in  one,  Lanier 's  peculiar  charm  lies 
in  his  unerring  choice  of  words,  which  suggest 
in  their  sound,  when  rightly  voiced,  the  at- 
mosphere of  the  scene  he  is  painting.  Lanier 
uses  words  as  Corot  uses  colors.  This  gives 
the  voice  its  opporttmity  to  bring  out  by 
subtle  variations  in  timbre  the  variations  in 
light  and  shade  of  an  atmosphere.  To  read 
aloud,  sympathetically,  once  a  day,  Lanier's 
"The  Symphony"  is  the  best  possible  way  to 
develop  simultaneously  all  the  elements  of 
a  vocal  vocabulary.  We  shall  use  this  poem 
to-day  as  a  text  for  our  study  in  tone-color. 
Let  us  omit  the  message  of  the  violins  and 
heavier  strings,  and  take  the  passage  begin- 
66 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

ning  with  the  interlude  upon  which  the  flute- 
voice  breaks: 

"  But  presently 

A  velvet  flute-note  fell  down  pleasantly 
Upon  the  bosom  of  that  harmony, 
And  sailed  and  sailed  incessantly, 
As  if  a  petal  from  a  wild  rose  blown 
Had  fluttered  down  upon  that  pool  of  tone 
And  boatwise  dropped  o'  the  convex  side 
And  floated  down  the  glassy  tide 
And  clarified  and  glorified 
The  solemn  spaces  where  the  shadows  bide. 
From  the  warm  concave  of  that  fluted  note 
Somewhat,  half  song,  half  odor,  forth  did  float, 
As  if  a  rose  might  somehow  be  a  throat." 

What  an  ideal  for  tone-color!  Dare  we 
think  to  make  it  ours  ?  We  must.  We  must 
adopt  it  with  confidence  of  attainment.  Le*t 
me  quote  a  little  further: 

' '  When  Nature  from  her  far-off  glen 
Flutes  her  soft  messages  to  men, 
The  flute  can  say  them  o'er  again; 
Yea,  Nature,  singing  sweet  and  lone, 
Breathes  through  life's  strident  polyphone 
The  flute-voice  in  the  world  of  tone." 

Read  this  passage  aloud  as  a  mere  state- 
ment of  fact,  employing  a  matter-of-fact 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

tone.  Gray  in  color,  is  it  not  ?  Now  let  your 
voice  take  the  color  Lanier  has  blended  for  you 
Let  your  tone,  like  a  thing  "half  song,  halt 
odor,"  float  forth  on  these  words  and  linger  as 
only  a  perfume  can  about  the  thought.  Now 
let  the  tone  change  in  color  to  clarify  and 
glorify  the  following  message  from  the  flute : l 

"Sweet  friends, 
Man's  love  ascends 
To  finer  and  diviner  ends 
Than  man's  mere  thought  e'er  comprehends." 

I  cannot,  for  lack  of  space,  reprint  the 
whole  flute  message,  but  you  will  get  the 
poem,  if  you  have  it  not,  and  voice  every 
word  of  it,  I  am  sure.  Here  are  some  of  the 
most  telling  lines  for  our  present  purpose: 

"  I  speak  for  each  no-tongued  tree 
That,  spring  by  spring,  doth  nobler  be, 
And  dumbly  and  most  wistfully 
His  mighty  prayerful  arms  outspreads 
Above  men's  oft-unheeding  heads, 
And  his  big  blessing  downward  sheds. 
I  speak  for  all-shaped  blooms  and  leaves, 
Lichens  on  stones  and  moss  on  eaves, 
Grasses  and  grains  in  ranks  and  sheaves; 

1  The  extracts  on  pp.  67-74  are  from  Mr.  Sidney 
Lanier's  volume  of  "Poems,"  published  by  Charles 
Scribner's  Sons. 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

Broad-fronded  ferns  and  keen-leaved  canes, 

And  briery  mazes  bounding  lanes, 

And  marsh-plants,  thirsty-cupped  for  rains, 

And  milky  stems  and  sugary  veins; 

For  every  long-armed  woman- vine 

That  round  a  piteous  tree  doth  twine; 

For  passionate  odors,  and  divine 

Pistils,  and  petals  crystalline; 

All  tree-sounds,  rustlings  of  pine-cones, 
Wind-sighings,  doves'  melodious  moans, 
And  night's  unearthly  undertones; 
All  placid  lakes  and  waveless  deeps, 
All  cool,  reposing  mountain-steeps, 
Vale-calms  and  tranquil  lotos-sleeps; — 
Yea,  all  fair  forms,  and  sounds,  and  lights, 
And  warmths,  and  mysteries,  and  mights, 
Of  Nature's  utmost  depths  and  heights, 
—These  doth  my  timid  tongue  present, 
Their  mouthpiece  and  leal  instrument 
And  servant,  all  love-eloquent." 

You  see,  to  voice  this  message,  a  mood  born 
of  all  the  "  warmths  and  mysteries  and  mights 
of  Nature's  utmost  depths  and  heights"  must 
take  possession  of  you,  and  you  must  yield 
your  instrument  to  the  expression  of  that 
mood.  Then  watch,  watch,  watch  the  color 
of  the  tone  change  as  the  voice,  starting  with 
the  clear  flute-note,  follows  sympathetically 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

the  varying  phases  of  Nature's  face  which  the 
poet  has  so  sympathetically  painted.  And 
now,  after  a  "  thrilling  calm,"  the  flute  yields 
its  place  to  a  sister  instrument,  and  the  tone 
must  change  its  timbre  to  the  reed  note  of  the 
clarionet.  In  the  "  melting  "  message  of  that 
instrument  we  find  two  passages  which  afford 
the  voice  chance  for  a  most  vivid  contrast  in 
color.  Beginning  with  the  line,  "  Now  comes 
a  suitor  with  sharp,  prying  eye,"  read  the 
two  descriptions  which  follow,  lending  your 
voice  to  the  atmosphere  of  each : 

"Says,  Here,  you  Lady,  if  you'll  sell  I'll  buy: 
\  Come,  heart  for  heart — a  trade  ?    What!  weeping ? 

why? 

Shame  on  such  wooer's  dapper  mercery! 
I  would  my  lover  kneeling  at  my  feet 
In  humble  manliness  should  cry,  O  sweet! 
I  know  not  if  thy  heart  my  heart  will  greet: 
I  ask  not  if  thy  love  my  love  can  meet: 
Whate'er  thy  worshipful  soft  tongue  shall  say, 
I'll  kiss  thine  answer,  be  it  yea  or  nay: 
I  do  but  know  I  love  thee,  and  I  pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day." 

The  first  two  lines,  which  set  forth  a  suit 
in  terms  of  trade,  demand  a  hard,  calculating 
70 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

tone,  suggestive  of  large  silver  dollars.  Call 
this  color  dull  steel  gray.  This  tone  flashes 
out  for  a  moment  in  the  white  indignation 
of  the  third  line,  softens  and  warms  with  the 
next  two  lines,  then  grows  and  glows  until 
it  reaches  a  crimson  radiance  in  the  last  two 
lines.  Try  it! 

And  now,  with  "heartsome  voice  of  mel- 
low scorn/'  let  us  sound  the  message  of  the 
"bold  straightforward  horn." 

"  '  Now  comfort  thee,'  said  he, 

'  Fair  Lady. 

,For  God  shall  right  thy  grievous  wrong, 
And  man  shall  sing  thee  a  true-love  song, 
Voiced  in  act  his  whole  life  long, 
Yea,  all  thy  sweet  life  long, 
Fair  Lady. 

"  '  Where's  he  that  craftily  hath  said 
The  day  of  chivalry  is  dead? 
I'll  prove  that  lie  upon  his  head, 
Or  I  will  die  instead, 
Fair  Lady. 
•         ••••••« 

Now  by  each  knight  that  e'er  hath  prayed 
To  fight  like  a  man  and  love  like  a  maid, 
Since  Pembroke's  life  as  Pembroke's  blade, 
I*  the  scabbard,  death  was  laid, 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

I  dare  avouch  my  faith  is  bright 
That  God  doth  right  and  God  hath  might. 
Nor  time  hath  changed  His  hair  to  white, 
Nor  His  dear  love  to  spite, 
Fair  Lady. 

"'I  doubt  no  doubts:  I  strive  and  shrive  my  clay, 
And  fight  my  fight  in  the  patient,  modern  way 
For  true  love  and  for  thee — ah  me!    and  pray 
To  be  thy  knight  until  my  dying  day, 
Fair  Lady.' 

"  Made  end  that  knightly  horn,  and  spurred  away, 
Into  the  thick  of  the  melodious  fray." 

Remember  your  "key"  is  set  for  you;  the 
color  of  the  tone  is  plainly  chosen  for  you 
by  Mr.  Lanier.  Not  red  nor  yellow,  but  a 
blending  of  the  two.  Orange,  is  it  not  ?  Will 
not  an  orange  tone  give  us  the  feel  of  heart- 
some  confidence  behind  and  through  the 
mellow  scorn  of  the  knight's  message  ?  Try 
it!  Let  the  two  primary  colors,  red  and  yel- 
low, enter  in  varying  degrees  according  to, 
or  following,  the  emotional  variation  in  the 
thought,  as  the  knight  or  the  lover  domi- 
nates in  the  message.  In  the  first  seven 
lines,  the  tone  glows  with  the  love  radiance 
72 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

and  the  orange  deepens  toward  red.  With 
the  next  five  lines  the  lover  yields  to  the 
knight,  and  the  tone  flashes  forth  a  golden, 
keen-edged  sword.  With  the  thirteenth  line 
the  tone  begins  in  the  orange  on,  "  Now  by 
each  knight  that  e'er  hath  prayed,"  flashes 
into  yellow  in  "to  fight  like  a  man,"  softens 
and  deepens  toward  red  in  "and  love  like  a 
maid,"  and  returns  to  the  orange  to  finish 
the  horn  motive. 

Next  in  this  poem  which  affords  such  a 
wonderful  study  for  tone-color,  we  have  the 
hautboy's  message.  The  color  is  mixed  and 
laid  on  the  palette  ready  for  use  as  before, 
with  the  introductory  lines: 

"  And  then  the  hautboy  played  and  smiled, 
And  sang  like  any  large-eyed  Child, 
Cool-hearted  and  all  undefiled." 

Don't  let  the  words  "large-eyed  Child"  mis- 
lead you.  Don't,  I  beseech  you,  make  the 
mistake  of  adopting  the  "Little  Orphan 
Annie"  tone  with  which  the  "elocutionist" 
too  often  insults  the  pure  treble  of  a  child's 
"undefiled"  instrument.  That  is  the  key- 
73 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

note  to  us  for  our  choice  of  color — "cool- 
hearted  and  all  undefiled."  Almost  a  white 
tone,  is  it  not  ?  With  a  little  of  the  blue  of 
the  June  sky  ?  Try  it.  Let  the  blue  be  vis- 
ibly present  in  the  first  three  lines: 

'"Huge  Trade!'  he  said, 
*  Would  thou  wouldst  lift  me  on  thy  head 
And  run  where'er  my  finger  led!'  " 

turning  to  pure  white  in  the  next  three  lines : 

"  Once  said  a  Man — and  wise  was  He — 
Never  shalt  thou  the  heavens  see 
Save  as  a  little  child  thou  be." 

The  last  voice  comes  from  the  "ancient  wise 
bassoons."  Again  there  is  danger.  Do  not, 
oh!  do  not  fall  afoul  of  the  conventional  old 
man's  quavering  tone.  There  is  nothing 
conventional  about  these  "  weird,  gray-beard 
old  harpers  sitting  on  the  high  sea-dunes," 
chanting  runes.  The  last  words  of  these 
introductory  lines  safeguard  us — "chanted 
runes."  There  is  only  one  color  of  tone  in 
which  to  "chant  runes."  Gray,  is  it  not? 
Yes,  but  a  silver  gray,  not  the  steel  gray  of 
74 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

the  clarionet  when  she  became  for  the  mo- 
ment a  commercial  lover.  Then  in  the  sil- 
ver-gray tone  of  the  philosopher,  voice  this 
last  motive: 

"  Bright-waved  gain,  gray -waved  loss, 
The  sea  of  all  doth  lash  and  toss, 
One  wave  forward  and  one  across: 
But  now  'twas  trough,  now  'tis  crest, 
And  worst  doth  foam  and  flash  to  best, 
And  curst  to  blest. 

The  importance  of  a  right  use  of  tone-color 
in  vocal  interpretation  was  impressed  upon 
a  Browning  class  last  winter.  We  were  read- 
ing the  Dramatic  Lyrics.  The  poem  for  the 
hour  was  "Meeting  at  Night."  The  tone 
with  which  the  first  student  attacked  this  ex- 
quisite love-lyric  was  so  businesslike,  so  mat- 
ter of  fact,  so  utterly  out  of  key,  that  we  who 
listened  saw  not  the  lover  hastening  to  his 
beloved,  but  a  real-estate  agent  "  out  to  buy  " 
a  farm.  The  "  gray  sea,  the  long  black  land, 
the  yellow  half -moon  large  and  low,  the  star- 
tled little  waves  that  creep  in  fiery  ringlets 
from  their  sleep,  the  pushing  prow  of  the 
boat  quenched  in  the  slushy  sand,  the  warm, 
75 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

sea-scented  beach,  and  the  three  fields"  all 
assumed  a  merely  commercial  value.  They 
were  interesting  exactly  as  would  be  a  cata- 
logue of  properties  in  a  deed  of  real  estate. 
If  you  are  not  a  very  "intense"  member  of 
a  Browning  society  you  will,  I  think,  enjoy 
the  test  of  tone-color  involved  in  reading  this 
poem  from  the  contrasted  standpoints  of  the 
business  man  and  the  lover.  Of  course,  in  the 
first  instance  you  must  stop  where  I,  in  des- 
peration, stopped  the  student  on  the  words, "  a 
farm  appears . ' '  For  I  defy  any  one  to  read  the 
last  two  lines  in  a  gray,  matter-of-fact  tone. 

As  was  the  case  in  our  consideration  of 
inflection,  so  in  this  study  of  tone-color  there 
is  an  embarrassment  of  rich  material  for  the 
exercise  of  this  element.  Lanier's  "Sun- 
rise" and  "Corn";  Browning's  "Prologue" 
to  "The  Two  Poets  of  Croisic,"  with  a  vivid 
contrast  of  color  in  each  verse;  Swinburne's 
almost  every  line;  Dante  Gabriel  Rossetti, 
Wordsworth,  Keats,  Tennyson  —  but  why 
enumerate?  All  the  colorists  among  the 
poets  will  reward  your  search  of  a  text  for 
the  development  of  timbre. 
76 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

For  a  final  brief  study  of  the  three  ele- 
ments we  aim  to  acquire,  with  especial  em- 
phasis in  thought  upon  the  last  one,  let  us 
take  this  prologue  to  "The  Two  Poets  of 

Croisic,"  with  its  color-contrast  in  each  verse: 

s 

"  Such  a  starved  bank  of  moss 

Till  that  May  morn, 
Blue  ran  the  flash  across: 
Violets  were  born! 

"  Sky — what  a  scowl  of  cloud 

Till,  near  and  far, 
Ray  on  ray  split  the  shroud: 
Splendid,  a  star! 

"World — how  it  walled  about 

Life  with  disgrace 
Till  God's  own  smile  came  out: 
That  was  thy  face!" 

The  vocal  treatment  of  the  first  two  verses 
will  be  very  much  alike.  The  voice  starts  in 
minor  key,  a  gray  monotone,  in  harmony 
with  the  absence  of  color  in  the  bare  bank 
of  dull  moss.  The  inflection  of  the  word 
"  starved  "  must  emphasize  the  grayness.  It 
must  be  a  dull  push  of  the  tone  on  the  first 

6  77 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

syllable,  with  little,  if  any,  lift  above  the 
level  of  the  low  pitch  on  which  the  whole 
line  is  spoken.  With  a  swift,  salient,  rising 
inflection  on  the  opening  word  of  the  second 
line,  an  inflection  which  creates  expectancy 
of  change,  the  voice  lifts  the  thought  out  of 
the  minor  into  the  major  key.  Because 
pause  has  no  direct  effect  upon  the  voice,  I 
have  not  before  mentioned  it,  although  it 
is  a  most  vital  element  of  vocal  expression. 
But  I  must  call  your  attention  to  its  signifi- 
cance here  by  simply  asking  you  to  indulge 
in  it.  Stop  after  uttering  the  word  "till" 
and  study  the  effect  of  the  pause.  It  is  the 
pause  quite  as  much  as  the  inflection,  you 
see,  which  induces  the  expectant  attitude 
you  desire  to  create  in  the  mind  of  your  au- 
ditor. With  the  next  three  words,  "that 
May  morn,"  the  tone  takes  on  a  bit  of  the 
warmth  of  early  summer.  A  lingering  ca- 
dence on  the  word  "May"  will  help  the  sug- 
gestion. With  the  third  line  the  voice  be- 
gins to  shine.  I  know  no  other  way  to 
express  it.  The  inflections  are  swift  and 
straight,  but  not  staccato,  because  they  must 
78 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

suggest  a  growth,  not  a  burst  of  color.  The 
tone  on  which  the  words  are  borne  must  be 
continuous.  It  must  not  be  broken  off  def- 
initely with  each  word,  as  is  to  prove  most 
effective,  we  shall  find,  in  handling  the  third 
line  of  the  second  verse.  The  fourth  line 
brings  the  full,  glowing,  radiant  tone  on  the 
first  word,  "violets."  This  tone  must  be 
held  in  full  volume  on  the  last  two  words. 
The  law  for  beautiful  speech  must  be  ob- 
served here.  (But  where  should  it  not  be 
observed?)  Let  us  recall  the  law:  "Beau- 
tiful speech  depends  upon  openness  of  vowels 
and  definiteness  of  consonants."  The  vowels 
give  volume  to  a  word,  the  consonants  form. 
Slur  your  consonants  and  squeeze  your 
vowels  in  the  three  words  of  this  line,  "Vio- 
lets were  born,"  and  what  becomes  of  this 
miracle  of  spring  ?  The  voicing  of  the  second 
verse  is  very  like  that  of  the  first.  The 
opening  line  demands  the  same  gray  mono- 
tone. But  the  three  words,  "sky,"  "scowl," 
and  "cloud,"  if  clear-cut  in  utterance,  as 
they  should  be,  will  break  the  level  of  the 
line  more  than  the  single  word  "starved"  in 
79 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

the  first  line  of  the  first  verse  can  do,  or  was 
meant  to  do.  There  is  the  same  swift  lift 
of  the  voice  in  the  opening  word  of  the  second 
line,  the  same  change  to  the  major  key,  the 
same  growing  glow  in  the  tone  on  the  third 
line,  and  the  same  radiant  outburst  of  color 
sustained  through  the  last  line.  The  only 
difference  lies  in  the  suffusion  of  radiance  in 
the  tone  to  suggest  the  coming  of  color  to 
the  bank,  in  the  first  verse,  and  the  outbtirst 
of  radiance  to  suggest  the  sudden  splitting 
of  the  clouds,  and  the  star's  swift  birth,  in 
the  second  verse.  With  the  emotional  change 
of  thought  in  the  last  verse,  from  a  travail 
and  birth  in  nature,  to  a  human  soul's  strug- 
gle and  rebirth,  the  deepening  color  which 
creeps  into  the  tone  indicates  the  entrance 
of  personal  passion.  The  key  does  not 
change.  The  inflections  are  still  and  straight. 
The  tone  simply  deepens  and  glows  in  the 
last  two  lines,  as  a  prayerful  ecstasy  possesses 
the  one  who  reads. 

Mr.  William  James  tells  us  that  we  learn 
to  swim  in  winter  and  skate  in  summer.   The 
principle  underlying  this  statement  is  of  im- 
80 


STUDY    IN    TONE-COLOR 

mense  comfort,  as  I  have  said,  in  approach- 
ing a  class  in  vocal  expression.  The  hope  of 
satisfying  results  is  fostered  by  the  knowl- 
edge that  a  mere  statement  of  the  funda- 
mental facts  of  right  tone-production  will  do 
much  toward  inducing  a  right  condition  for 
tone.  But  I  know,  too,  that  immediate  re- 
sults depend  upon  immediate  and  faithful 
putting  into  practice  of  the  principles  set 
forth.  A  little  practice  every  day  will  work 
swift  wonders  with  the  voice.  And  so,  in 
leaving  this  phase  of  the  training,  I  commend 
you  to  Ellen  Terry's  watchword,  "infinite 
pains."  When  it  means,  as  it  does  in  pur- 
suing this  ideal,  that  we  must  be  "on  guard" 
every  waking  instant — -for  a  time;  when  it 
means  a  watch  set  (for  a  time)  upon  every 
organ  involved  in  expression — lips,  teeth, 
tongue,  jaw,  mouth,  throat,  chest,  dia- 
phragm, and  all  the  muscles  governing  these 
organs;  when  it  means  a  watch  set  (for  a 
time)  upon  one's  every  thought  and  emotion 
lest  it  make  false  demands  upon  the  sensitive 
instruments  of  their  expression — then  it  be- 
comes a  daring  device,  indeed,  to  wear  upon 
81 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

one's  crest.  Let  us  not  hesitate  to  carve  it 
there,  when  we  realize  that  to  follow  it  means 
culture,  true  culture,  the  culture  which  can 
only  come  through  control  and  command  of 
one's  self. 


PART   III 

STUDIES  IN  THE  VOCAL  INTERPRETATION  OF 
LITERATURE 


I 

THE   LAW  OP   APPROACH 

WE  turn  now  to  a  series  of  studies  in 
vocal  interpretation,  based  for  conven- 
ience upon  the  analysis  of  various  literary 
forms,  beginning  with  the  essay  and  the 
fable,  passing  through  the  lyric  to  the  di- 
dactic poem,  through  the  short  story  to  the 
epic  poem,  and  finally  through  the  dramatic 
monologue  to  the  play. 

I  have  said  that  each  of  these  forms 
makes  its  distinctive  demand  upon  the 
voice  of  the  interpreter.  Before  analyz- 
ing the  particular  form  to  determine  the 
nature  of  that  demand,  let  us  consider  the 
law  of  approach  in  entering  upon  the  in- 
terpretation of  any  piece  of  literature,  re- 
gardless of  its  form.  Let  us  consider  the 
relation  of  the  reader  to  his  text ;  and  to  his 
85 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

auditor.  What  should  be  my  aim  in  read- 
ing aloud  to  you?  Should  it  not  be  to 
convey  to  your  mind  as  simply,  clearly, 
and  convincingly  as  possible  the  thought  of 
the  author?  Yes,  but  I  think  the  following 
statement  of  our  relation  is  a  little  more 
comprehensive.  As  an  interpreter  of  litera- 
ture in  any  form,  I  must  become  a  pure 
medium  between  the  mind  of  the  author  and 
^  the  mind  of  the  auditor.  In  a  final  analysis 
/I,  the  interpreter,  must  be  a  pure  medium 
between  life  and  your  soul.  I  have  said  that 
the  only  excuse  for  the  existence  of  a  reader 
is  that  he  should  be  an  interpreter.  I  should 
have  said  an  interpreter  of  life  through  litera- 
ture. Let  me  illustrate.  With  a  sense  of 
protest,  I  had  presented  a  play  I  loved,  to  an 
audience  with  which  I  felt  little  sympathy. 
By  chance  there  was  in  that  audience  one  of 
our  best  teachers  and  critics.  After  my  re- 
cital I  sought  his  criticism.  Beginning,  as 
/the  true  critic  always  should,  with  a  noting 
{  of  some  point  of  power,  he  said,  "I  congratu- 
late you  upon  your  illumined  moments,  but 
—they  are  too  infrequent.  You  must 
86 


THE    LAW    OF    APPROACH 

tiply  them."  ''What  do  you  mean  by  my 
illumined  moments?"  I  asked.  "The  mo- 
ments when  you  do  not  get  between  your 
audience  and  the  thought  you  are  uttering — 
the  moments  when  you  become  a  revealer  of 
life  to  them.  Your  attitude  toward  your 
audience  is  not  sustained  in  the  simplicity 
and  clearness  of  some  of  its  moments.  You 
suddenly  ring  down  the  curtain  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  scene.  That  spoils  the  scene,  you 
know.  You  seem  to  feel  a  revolt  against 
the  giving  of  your  confidence  to  the  audience, 
and  thereupon  you  immediately  shut  them 
away.  You  become  conscious  of  yourself, 
and  we,  the  audience,  lose  the  vision  and 
become  conscious  of  you  and  the  way  you 
are  reading  or  reciting  or  acting."  Then 
he  added,  "Adelaide  Neilson,  at  first,  had 
illumined  moments  in  her  playing  of  Juliet, 
but  finally  her  impersonation  became  one 
piece  of  illumination."  That  delightful  teach- 
er, reader,  and  critic,  the  late  Mr.  Howard 
Ticknor,  suggested  the  same  ideal  in  com- 
paring a  Juliet  of  to-day  with  Miss  Neil- 
son's  Juliet.  "When  Miss  — — — -  is  on  the 
87 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

balcony,"  he  said,  "  you  hear  all  around 
you:  'How  lovely  she  looks!  Isn't  that  robe 
dear?  How  beautiful  her  voice  is!'  When 
Miss  Neilson  lived  that  little  minute,  a  breath- 
less people  prayed  with  Juliet,  'I  would 
not  for  the  world  they  found  thee  here,' 
and  sighed  with  Romeo — 'O  blessed,  blessed 
night!  I  am  afeard,  being  in  night,  all  this 
is  but  a  dream.'  Miss  Neilson  was  Juliet. 
They,  the  audience,  lived  with  these  lovers 
one  hour  of  lyric  rapture,  and  could  never 
again  be  quite  so  commonplace  in  their  atti- 
tude toward  the  'deathless  passion.'  They 
may  not  now  remember  Adelaide  Neilson, 
but  they  remember  that  story,  and  forever 
carry  a  new  vision  of  life  and  love,  be- 
cause the  actress  lost  herself  in  the  life  of 
the  play.  She  did  not  exploit  her  person- 
ality and  let  it  stand  between  the  audience 
and  the  drama/'  That  is  it:  if  we  would 
be  artists  (and  there  is  not  one  among  us 
who  would  not  be  an  artist)  we  must  cease 
to  put  our  little  selves  in  front  of  our  mes- 
sages. In  the  home,  in  the  office,  in  the 
houses  of  our  friends,  in  the  school-room,  on 
88 


THE    LAW    OF    APPROACH 

the  platform,  on  the  stage,  let  us  be  simple,] 
natural,  sincere.  Let  us  lay  aside  our  man-| 
nerisms.  Let  us  seek  to  know  and  re  veal  j 
life.  Then  shall  we  be  remembered:  not,  for; 
a  queer  way  of  combing  our  hair,  or  lifting 
our  eyes,  or  using  our  hands,  or  shrugging 
our  shoulders;  but  for  some  revelation  of 
truth  or  of  beauty  which  we  have  brought 
to  a  community.  When  some  one  says  to 
you  —  the  reader  or  actress,  "I  shall  never 
forget  the  way  you  raised  your  eyebrow  at 
that  point,"  don't  stop  to  reply,  but  fly  to 
your  study  and  read  the  lines  "at  that  point " 
over  and  over,  with  level  brows,  until  you 
understand  the  meaning,  and  can  express 
the  thought  so  effectively  by  a  lift  of  your 
voice  that  you  no  longer  need  the  help  of 
your  eyebrow.  Every  gesture,  every  tone 
must  call  attention,  not  to  itself,  but  to  the 
hidden  meaning  of  the  author.  It  must  il- 
lumine the  text  of  the  character  portrayed. 
Then,  with  this  attitude,  which  can  only  be 
described  as  selfless,  let  us  enter  upon  our 
interpretative  study  of  special  forms. 

I  have  said  that  each  form  makes  its  par- 
89 


TH.E    SPEAKING    VOICE 

ticular  demand  and  appeal.  If  it  is  an  essay 
that  I  am  to  read  to  you,  the  direct  and  fun- 
damental appeal  is  to  the  mind;  and  the 
demand  upon  me,  the  reader,  is  for  clear, 
concise  thinking,  revealed  through  unerring 
emphasis  and  definite,  purposeful  inflection. 
So  read,  it  will  inevitably  persuade  you  to 
some  readjustment  of  your  ideas,  your  values, 
your  discriminations;  or  it  will  strengthen 
you  in  convictions  you  already  hold.  If  it 
is  a  fable  that  I  am  to  interpret,  the  appeal 
is  to  the  fancy;  the  demand  upon  my  voice 
is  for  subtle  lights  and  shades  of  tone  and 
a  mastery  of  swift  changes  in  inflection.  If 
read  as  a  fable  should  be  read,  it  will  leave 
you  less  serious  in  your  attitude  toward  your 
neighbor's  harmless  foibles  and  less  critical 
of  his  failings.  If  it  is  a  short  story  the  de- 
mand upon  me  is  for  a  sustained  vitality  of 
tone  and  temper,  in  order  that  I  may  carry 
you  with  unflagging  interest  through  some 
new  or  old  experience,  and  show  you  how  to 
meet  or  how  not  to  meet  certain  crises  in 
life.  If  it  is  a  lyric  (sonnet,  ballad,  psalm, 
ode,  or  elegy)  its  fundamental  appeal  is  to 
90 


THE    LAW    OF    APPROACH 

emotion;  and  its  demand  upon  me  is  for  a 
mastery  of  tone -color,  a  sense  of  rhythm, 
and  the  power  to  suggest  a  background  of 
musical  sound.  So  read,  it  will  add  to  your 
power  to  forgive,  pity,  endure,  forbear,  un- 
derstand, and  love.  If  it  is  an  epic  poem, 
concerned  with  the  deeds  of  heroes  and 
heroines,  its  demand  is  for  each  and  all  of 
the  qualities  already  noted.  And  a  right  in- 
terpretation, through  a  just  use  of  these 
qualities,  will  add  to  your  courage  and  skill 
and  foresight.  If  it  is  a  dramatic  mono- 
logue a  further  demand  is  made  upon  me 
for  character  identification.  I  must  lend  my- 
self to  the  spirit  of  the  speaker.  I  must  let 
him  speak  to  you  through  me.  If  I  present 
the  monologue  in  the  right  spirit  you  will 
understand  a  certain  type  of  person  better. 
Finally,  if  it  is  a  play  that  I  am  presenting 
I  must  identify  myself  not  with  one  char- 
acter, but  with  several.  I  must  be  so  vola- 
tile in  voice,  body,  and  mind  that  the  tran- 
sition from  character  to  character  will  not 
interrupt  the  movement  of  the  play.  If  I 
present  a  drama  thus  powerfully  it  will  make 
91 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

you  see  more  clearly  the  relations  of  men  and 
events  and  give  you  a  truer  understanding  of 
life. 

In  turning  now  to  a  particular  study  of 
the  particular  form,  we  must  assume  that  we 
have  mastered  the  first  steps  in  vocal  train- 
ing: that  our  instruments  are  in  tune  and  so 
ready  for  use;  and  that  we  have  acquired  a 
more  or  less  efficient  vocal  vocabulary.  We 
are  now  to  use  the  tuned  instrument  and  its 
acquired  vocabulary  in  interpreting,  first,  the 
essay. 


II 

THE   ESSAY 

WHY  do  we  choose  the  essay  for  our  first 
study  in  vocal  analysis  ?  Because  a  fault 
fundamental  to  all  other  faults,  in  tone  pro- 
duction and  vocal  expression,  rises  from  a 
failure  to  think  clearly.  The  appeal  of  the 
essay  is  primarily  an  intellectual  appeal.  It 
demands  concentration  of  the  mind  upon  its 
thought  to  make  it  your  own ;  and  clear  and 
concise  utterance  of  its  phrases  to  convey 
that  thought  to  another.  To  really  grasp 
and  adequately  present  a  philosophical  essay 
involves  mental  discipline  similar  to  that  re- 
quired in  solving  a  mathematical  problem. 
I  have  taken  my  examples  for  analysis  from 
Emerson,  because  Emerson's  almost  every 
paragraph  is  an  essay  in  miniature.  In  print- 
ing extracts  from  this  source  we  feel  no  sense 
7  93 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

of  incompleteness.     Let  us  read  this  passage 
from  "Experience": 

"  To  finish  the  moment,  to  find  the  journey's  end 
in  every  step  of  the  road,  to  live  the  greatest  num- 
ber of  good  hours,  is  wisdom.  It  is  not  the  part  of 
men,  but  of  fanatics — or  of  mathematicians,  if  you 
will — to  say  that,  the  shortness  of  life  considered, 
it  is  not  worth  caring  whether  for  so  short  a  du- 
ration we  were  sprawling  in  want  or  sitting  high. 
Since  our  office  is  with  moments,  let  us  husband 
them.  Five  minutes  of  to-day  are  worth  as  much 
to  me  as  five  minutes  in  the  next  millennium.  Let 
us  be  poised,  and  wise,  and  our  own,  to-day.  I 
settle  myself  ever  the  firmer  in  the  creed  that  we 
should  not  postpone  and  refer  and  wish,  but  do 
broad  justice  where  we  are,  by  whomsoever  we 
deal  with,  accepting  our  actual  companions  and 
circumstances,  however  humble  or  odious,  as  the 
mystic  officials  to  whom  the  universe  has  delegated 
its  whole  pleasure  for  us." 

If  you  do  not  think  your  way  through  this 
paragraph  clearly,  concisely,  logically,  in- 
tensely, when  you  read  it  aloud  your  voice 
/will  betray  you.  In  what  way?  Your  tone 
will  lack  resonance,  your  speech  will  lack 
precision,  your  pitch  will  be  monotonous, 
your  touch  will  be  uncertain,  your  inflections 
will  be  indefinite.  Your  reading  will  be  un- 
94 


THE    ESSAY 

convincing,  because  it  will  fail  in  lucidity 
and  variety.  In  approaching  this  passage 
let  us  study  first  the  question  of  proper  em- 
phasis. What  is  emphasis?  The  diction- 
aries tell  us  that,  in  delivery,  it  is  a  special 
stress  of  the  voice  on  a  given  word.  But 
we  must  use  it  in  a  broader  sense  than  this. 
To  emphasize  a  word  is  not  merely  to  put  a 
special  stress  of  the  voice  upon  that  word. 
Such  an  attack  might  only  make  the  word 
conspicuous  and  so  defeat  the  aim  of  true  em- 
phasis. True  emphasis  is  the  art  of  voicing 
the  words  in  a  phrase  so  that  they  shall  as- 
sume a  right  relation  to  each  other  and,  so 
related,  best  suggest  the  thought  of  which 
they  are  the  symbols.  I  do  not  emphasize 
one  word  in  a  phrase  and  not  the  others.  I 
simply  vary  my  stress  upon  each  word,  in 
order  to  gain  the  proper  perspective  for  the 
whole  sentence.  Just  so,  in  a  picture,  I  make 
one  object  stand  out, 'and  others  fall  into  the 
background,  by  drawing  or  painting  them  in 
proper  relations  to  each  other.  I  may  use 
any  or  all  of  the  "elements  of  vocal  expres- 
sion" to  give  that  proper  delation  of  values 
95 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

to  the  words  in  a  single  phrase.  I  may 
pause,  change  my  pitch,  vary  my  inflection, 
and  alter  my  tone-color,  in  order  to  give  a 
single  word  its  full  value.  Let  us  try  ex- 
periments in  emphasis,  with  some  isolated 
sentences,  before  analyzing  the  longer  pas- 
sage. Here  is  one  of  Robert  Louis  Steven- 
son's beautifully  wrought  periods,  "Every 
man  has  a  sane  spot  somewhere."  Let  us 
vary,  vocally,  the  relative  values  of  the  words 
in  this  sentence,  and  study  the  effect  upon  the 
character  of  the  thought.  Let  us  look  upon 
the  statement  as  a  theme  for  discussion. 
With  a  pause  before  the  second  word,  "man," 
a  lift  of  the  voice  on  that  word,  a  whimsical 
turn  of  the  tone,  and  a  significant  inflection, 
we  may  convert  an  innocent  statement  of 
fact  into  an  incendiary  question  for  debate 
on  the  comparative  sanity  of  the  sexes.  A 
plea  for  endless  faith  and  charity  becomes  a 
back-handed  criticism  of  women.  Now  let 
us  read  the  sentence,  giving  it  its  true  mean- 
ing. "Every  man  has  a  sane  spot  some- 
where." Let  your  voice  make  of  the  state- 
ment a  plea,  by  dwelling  a  bit  on  the  first 
96 


THE    ESSAY 

word  and  again  on  the  last  word.  Hyphen- 
ate the  first  two  words  (they  really  stand 
for  one  idea).  Compound  also  the  words 
sane  and  spol.  Lift  them  as  a  single  word 
above  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  Now  put 
somewhere  a  little  higher  still  above  the  level 
of  the  rest  of  the  sentence.  So,  only,  have 
we  the  true  import  of  this  group  of  words: 

some 

where, 
sane-spot 
Every- 
man has  a 

Analyze  the  rest  of  these  sentences  from 
Stevenson  in  the  same  way,  and  experiment 
with  them  vocally. 

"  That  is  never  a  bad  wind  that  blows  where  we 
want  to  go." 

"  For  truth  that  is  suppressed  by  friends  is  the 
readiest  weapon  of  the  enemy." 

"Some  strand  of  our  own  misdoing  is  involved 
in  every  quarrel." 

"  Drama  is  the  poetry  of  conduct,  romance  the 
poetry  of  circumstance." 

97 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"You  cannot  run  away  from  a  weakness;  you 
must  sometime  fight  it  out  or  perish;  and  if  that 
be  so,  why  not  now,  and  where  you  stand?" 

"An  aim  in  life  is  the  only  fortune  worth  the 
finding;  and  it  is  not  to  be  found  in  foreign  lands, 
but  in  the  heart  itself." 

"The  world  was  not  made  for  us;  it  was  made 
for  ten  hundred  millions  of  me,  all  different  from 
each  other  and  from  us;  there's  no  royal  road,  we 
just  have  to  sclamber  and  tumble." 

Now,  once  more,  and  this  time  with  de- 
tailed analysis,  let  us  study  the  passage  from 
"Experience."  Let  us  first  consider  for  a 
moment  some  of  the  words  which  make  this 
passage  powerful:  finish,  journey' s-end,  good- 
hours,  wisdom ,  fanatics,  mathematicians,  sprawl- 
ing-in-want,  sitting-high,  firmer,  poised,  post- 
pone, justice,  humble,  odious,  mystic,  pleas- 
ure. When  spoken  with  a  keen  sense  of  its 
inherent  meaning,  with  full  appreciation  of 
its  form,  and  with  delight  in  moulding  it, 
how  efficient  each  one  of  these  words  be- 
comes. When  shall  we,  as  a  people,  learn 
reverence  for  the  words  which  make  up 
our  language — reverence  that  shall  make  us 


THE    ESSAY 

ashamed  to  mangle  words,  offering  as  our 
excuse  that  we  are  "Westerners"  or  "South- 
erners" or  from  New  York  or  New  England 
or  Indiana.  The  clear-cut  thought  calls  for 
the  clean-cut  speech.  Let  us  say  these  words 
over  and  over  until  they  assume  full  value. 
And  now  we  pass  from  words  to  groups  of 
words.  The  mind  and  the  tone  must  move 
progressively  through  the  first  three  phrases 
which  make  up  this  first  sentence:  "To  fin- 
ish the  moment,  to  find  the  journey's  end  in 
every  step  of  the  road,  to  live  the  greatest 
number  of  good  hours,  is  wisdom/'  The 
phrases  must  be  held  together  by  an  almost 
imperceptible  suspension  and  upward  reach  of 
the  voice  at  the  end  of  each  group  of  words, 
and  yet  each  phrase  must  be  allowed  to  be 
momentarily  complete.  Read  the  sentence, 
making  each  phrase  a  conclusion,  and  then 
again  letting  each  phrase  look  forward  to  the 
next.  Each  phrase  is  really  a  substantive, 
looking  forward  to  its  predicate  through  a 
second  substantive  which  is  a  little  more  vital 
than  the  first,  and  again  through  a  third 
substantive  which  is  a  little  more  vital  than 
99 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

either  of  the  other  two.  Bring  this  out 
in  reading  the  sentence.  The  next  sentence 
depends  for  its  significance  upon  your  con- 
trasting inflections  of  the  three  words,  men, 
fanatics,  and  mathematicians;  and  again  upon 
your  sympathetic  inflection  of  sprawling- 
in-want  and  sitting-high.  "It  is  not  the 
part  of  men,  but  of  fanatics — or  of  mathe- 
maticians, if  you  will — to  say  that,  the 
shortness  of  life  considered,  it  is  not  worth 
caring  whether  for  so  short  a  duration  we 
were  sprawling  in  want  or  sitting  high." 
In  your  utterance  of  these  words  can  you 
make  "men"  MEN,  and  "fanatics"  fanatics, 
and  consign  "mathematicians"  to  the  cold 
corner  of  human  affairs  designed  for  them? 
Can  you  so  inflect  "sprawling  in  want"  and 
"sitting  high  "  as  to  suggest  a  swamp  and  a 
mountain-top,  or  a  frog  and  an  angel?  Let 
your  voice  leap  from  the  swamp  to  the 
mountain -top.  Let  it  climb.  Now  comes 
the  swift,  concise,  admonitory  sentence: 
"Since  our  office  is  with  moments,  let  us 
husband  them."  Pause  before  you  speak 
the  word  "husband,"  and  husband  it.  "Five 
100 


TH'E  'H^SAY 

minutes  of  to-day  are  worth  as  much  to  me 
as  five  minutes  in  the  next  millennium." 
Make  "five  minutes  of  to-day"  one  word, 
and  accent  the  last  syllable,  thus:  five-min- 
utes-of -to -day.  Let  the  tone  retard  and 
take  its  time  on  the  last  seven  words.  Now 
poise  your  tone  for  the  next  sentence.  "Let 
us  be  poised,  arid  wise,  and  our  own,  to- 
day." The  paragraph  closes  with  a  more 
complex  statement  of  the  theme.  Let  your 
voice  search  out  the  meaning.  Let  it  set- 
tle down  into  the  conclusion,  and  utter  it 
convincingly.  Give  a  definite  touch  to  the 
words  which  I  shall  put  in  italics.  "I  settle 
myself  ever  firmer  in  the  creed  that  we  should 
not  postpone  and  refer  and  wish,  but  do  broad- 
justice  where  we  are,  by  whomsoever  we  deal 
with,  accepting  our  actual  companions  and 
circumstances,  however  humble  or  odious, 
as  the  mystic  officials  to  whom  the  uni- 
verse has  dedicated  its  whole  pleasure  for 
us." 

This  is  a  suggestive  analysis  for  the  vocal 
interpretation  of  the  essay.     The  examples 
which  follow  are  for  you  to  analyze  in  the 
101 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

same  way,  but  with  your  voice  in  your  study 
— not  with  a  pencil  on  paper. 

"There  is  a  time  in  every  man's  education 
when  he  arrives  at  the  conviction  that  envy  is 
ignorance ;  that  imitation  is  suicide ;  that  he  must 
take  himself  for  better  for  worse  as  his  portion; 
that  though  the  wide  universe  is  full  of  good,  no 
kernel  of  nourishing  corn  can  come  to  him  but 
through  his  toil  bestowed  on  that  plot  of  ground 
which  is  given  to  him  to  till.  The  power  which 
resides  in  him  is  new  in  nature,  and  none  but  he 
knows  what  that  is  which  he  can  do,  nor  does  he 
know  until  he  has  tried.  .  .  .  What  I  must  do  is 
all  that  concerns  me,  not  what  the  people  think. 
This  rule,  equally  arduous  in  actual  and  in  in- 
tellectual life,  may  serve  for  the  whole  distinc- 
tion between  greatness  and  meanness.  It  is 
the  harder  because  you  will  always  find  those 
who  think  they  know  what  is  your  duty  better 
than  you  know  it.  It  is  easy  in  the  world  to 
live  after  the  world's  opinion;  it  is  easy  in 
solitude  to  live  after  our  own ;  but  the  great  man 
is  he  who  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  keeps  with 
perfect  sweetness  the  independence  of  solitude." 

— Self -Reliance. 
****** 

"Happy  is  the  house  that  shelters  a  friend! 
Jt  might  well  be  built,  like  a  festal  bower  or 
103 


J)  -Oft^MLX-* 

\U^>     «J*  ^ 

THE    ESSAY 

arch,  to  entertain  him  a  single  day.  Happier, 
if  he  know  the  solemnity  of  that  relation  and 
honor  its  law!  It  is  no  idle  bond,  no  holiday  en- 
gagement. He  who  offers  himself  a  candidate 
for  that  covenant  comes  up,  like  an  Olympian, 
to  the  great  games  where  the  first-born  of  the 
world  are  the  competitors.  He  proposes  him- 
self for  contest  where  Time,  Want,  Danger,  are 
in  the  lists,  and  he  alone  is  victor  who  has  truth 
enough  in  his  constitution  to  preserve  the 
delicacy  of  his  beauty  from  the  wear  and  tear 
of  all  these.  The  gifts  of  fortune  may  be  present 
or  absent,  but  all  the  hap  in  that  contest  de- 
pends on  intrinsic  nobleness  and  the  contempt 
of  trifles.  There  are  two  elements  that  go  to 
the  composition  of  friendship,  each  so  sovereign 
that  I  can  detect  no  superiority  in  either,  no 
reason  why  either  should  be  first  named.  One 
is  Truth.  A  friend  is  a  person  with  whom  I 
may  be  sincere.  Before  him  I  may  think 
aloud.  .  .  .  The  other  element  of  friendship  is 
Tenderness.  We  are  holden  to  men  by  every 
sort  of  tie,  by  blood,  by  pride,  by  fear,  by  hope, 
by  lucre,  by  lust,  by  hate,  by  admiration,  by 
every  circumstance  and  badge  and  trifle,  but 
we  can  scarce  believe  that  so  much  character 
can  subsist  in  another  as  to  draw  us  by  love. 
Can  another  be  so  blessed  and  we  so  pure  that 
we  can  offer  him  tenderness  ?  When  a  man  be- 
103 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

comes  dear  to  me  I  have  touched  the  goal  of 
fortune. ' ' — Friendship. 


"A  gentleman  makes  no  noise :  a  lady  is  serene. 
.  . .  The  person  who  screams,  or  uses  the  superla- 
tive degree,  or  converses  with  heat,  puts  whole 
drawing-rooms  to  flight.  If  you  wish  to  be 
loved,  love  measure." — Manners. 


"The  reason  why  we  feel  one  man's  presence, 
and  do  not  feel  another's,  is  as  simple  as  gravity. 
Truth  is  the  summit  of  being:  justice  is  the 
application  of  it  to  affairs.  All  individual  na- 
tures stand  in  a  scale,  according  to  the  purity 
of  this  element  in  them.  The  will  of  the  pure 
runs  down  from  them  into  other  natures,  as 
water  runs  down  from  a  higher  into  a  lower 
vessel.  This  natural  force  is  no  more  to  be 
withstood  than  any  other  natural  force.  We 
can  drive  a  stone  upward  for  a  moment  into  the 
air,  but  it  is  yet  true  that  all  stones  will  forever 
fall ;  and  whatever  instances  can  be  quoted  of  un- 
punished theft,  or  of  a  lie  which  somebody 
credited,  justice  must  prevail,  and  it  is  the 
privilege  of  truth  to  make  itself  believed. 
Character  is  this  moral  order  seen  through  the 
medium  of  an  individual  nature.  An  individual 
104 


THE    ESSAY 

is  an  encloser.  Time  and  space,  liberty  and 
necessity,  truth  and  thought,  are  left  at  large 
no  longer.  Now,  the  universe  is  a  close  or 
pound.  All  things  exist  in  the  man  tinged 
with  the  manners  of  his  soul.  ...  A  healthy  soul 
stands  united  with  the  Just  and  the  True,  as  the 
magnet  arranges  itself  with  the  pole,  so  that  he 
stands  to  all  beholders  like  a  transparent  object 
betwixt  them  and  the  sun,  and  whoso  journeys 
toward  the  sun,  journeys  toward  that  person. 
He  is  thus  the  medium  of  the  highest  influence 
to  all  who  are  not  on  the  same  level.  Thus  men 
of  character  are  the  conscience  of  the  society 
to  which  they  belong." — Character. 

In  proposing  further  material  for  use  in 
establishing  this  step  in  vocal  interpretation, 
I  shall  make  a  suggestion  to  the  public-school 
teacher  of  the  work  only.  The  problem 
here  is  simpler  than  it  seems  to  be  at  first. 
Let  the  student  bring  to  his  class  in  Ex- 
pression his  text-book  in  any  other  subject, 
preferably  Nature  Study,  Science,  or  History. 
Three  things  can  be  accomplished  by  this 
plan :  The  history  or  science  lesson  will  be  ^ 
mastered  in  half  the  time  it  might  otherwise 
take;  a  right  habit  of  study  will  be  estab- 
105 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

lished ;  and  the  first  step  in  learning  to  read 
aloud  will  be  accomplished.  This  solves  the 
much-vexed  question  of  a  text-book  in  read- 
ing, for  the  time  at  least. 


Ill 

THE    FABLE 

IN  turning,  in  our  interpretative  study,  from 
the  essay  to  the  lyric,  let  us  pause  for  a 
moment  and  seek  relaxation  with  the  fable. 
Do  you  not  agree  with  me  that  the  reading 
of  the  fable,  whether  to  children  or  "  grown- 
ups," should  be  a  bit  whimsical  in  tone? 
Perhaps  I  only  mean  that  I  should  choose 
to  have  my  "whimsical  friend"  read  fables 
and  fairy-stories  to  me.  What  is  a  fable? 
"A  story  in  which,  by  the  imagined  dealings 
of  men  with  animals  or  mere  things,  or  by 
the  supposed  doings  of  these  alone,  useful 
lessons  are  taught."  It  is  the  presence  of 
the  lesson  that  must  be  offset  by  the  whim- 
sical tone.  A  moral  "rubbed  in"  is  like  an 
overdose  of  certain  kinds  of  medicine.  A 
little  cures,  too  much  may  kill.  I  print 
107 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

for  your  use  at  this  point  three  of 
fables. 

THE    LION    AND    THE    MOUSE 

Once  when  a  lion  was  asleep  a  little  mouse 
began  running  up  and  down  upon  him ;  this  soon 
wakened  the  lion,  who  placed  his  huge  paw 
upon  him,  and  opened  his  big  jaws  to  swallow 
him.  "  Pardon,  O  King,"  cried  the  little  mouse; 
"forgive  me  this  time.  I  shall  never  forget  it: 
who  knows  but  what  I  may  be  able  to  do  you  a 
turn  some  of  these  days?"  The  lion  was  so 
tickled  at  the  idea  of  the  mouse  being  able  to 
help  him,  that  he  lifted  up  his  paw  and  let  him 
go.  Some  time  after  the  lion  was  caught  in  a 
trap,  and  the  hunters,  who  desired  to  carry  him 
alive  to  the  king,  tied  him  to  a  tree  while  they 
went  in  search  of  a  wagon  to  carry  him  on. 
Just  then  the  little  mouse  happened  to  pass  by, 
and  seeing  the  sad  plight  in  which  the  lion  was, 
went  up  to  him  and  soon  gnawed  away  the 
ropes  that  bound  the  king  of  the  beasts.  "  Was 
I  not  right?"  said  the  little  mouse. 

"  Little  friends  may  prove  great  friends." 
THE    WIND    AND   THE    SUN 

The  wind  and  the  sun  were  disputing  which 
was  the  stronger.     Suddenly  they  saw  a  traveller 
108 


THE    FABLE 

coming  down  the  road,  and  the  sun  said:  "I 
see  a  way  to  decide  our  dispute.  Whichever  of 
us  can  cause  that  traveller  to  take  off  his  cloak 
shall  be  regarded  as  the  stronger.  You  begin." 
So  the  sun  retired  behind  a  cloud,  and  the  wind 
began  to  blow  as  hard  as  he  could  upon  the 
traveller.  But  the  harder  he  blew  the  more 
closely  did  the  traveller  wrap  his  cloak  round 
him,  till  at  last  the  wind  had  to  give  up  in 
despair.  Then  the  sun  came  out  and  shone  in 
all  his  glory  upon  the  traveller,  who  soon  found 
it  too  hot  to  walk  with  his  cloak  on. 

"  Kindness  effects  more  than  severity." 
THE    CROW    AND    THE    PITCHER 

A  crow,  half  dead  with  thirst,  came  upon  a 
pitcher  which  had  once  been  full  of  water;  but 
when  the  crow  put  his  beak  into  the  mouth  of 
the  pitcher  he  found  that  only  very  little  water 
was  left  in  it,  and  that  he  could  not  reach  far 
enough  down  to  get  at  it.  He  tried,  and  he 
tried,  but  at  last  had  to  give  up  in  despair. 
Then  a  thought  came  to  him,  and  he  took  a 
pebble  and  dropped  it  into  the  pitcher.  Then 
he  took  another  pebble  and  dropped  it  into  the 
pitcher.  Then  he  took  another  pebble  and 
dropped  that  into  the  pitcher.  Then  he  took 
another  pebble  and  dropped  that  into  the 

»  109 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

pitcher.  Then  he  took  another  pebble  and 
dropped  that  into  the  pitcher.  Then  he  took 
another  pebble  and  dropped  that  into  the 
pitcher.  At  last,  at  last,  he  saw  the  water 
mount  up  near  him;  and  after  casting  in  a  few 
more  pebbles  he  was  able  to  quench  his  thirst 
and  save  his  life. 

"  Little  by  little  does  the  trick." 

I  shall  not  analyze  these  fables  for  you. 
You  can  hardly  fail  in  right  use  of  emphasis. 
Your  only  danger  lies  in  making  your  touch 
too  heavy.  Let  me  speak  of  one  point  in 
the  fable  of  "The  Crow  and  the  Pitcher." 
How  shall  we  avoid  monotony  in  reading  the 
lines  beginning,  "Then  he  took  another  pebble 
and  dropped  it  into  the  pitcher  "  ?  This  line 
is  followed  by  one  in  which  but  two  words 
are  changed,  and  then  by  a  line  with  but 
one  change,  and  then  by  three  lines  with  no 
change  at  all  We  must  depend  upon  vary- 
ing the  emphasis  and  movement.  Try  this 
treatment:  Give  "another"  the  particular 
stress  in  reading  the  first  line.  Pause  at 
the  close  of  the  line  as  if  to  study  the  effect 
of  the  pebble.  In  the  next  line  "that,"  of 
no 


THE    FABLE 

course,  takes  the  emphasis.  Pause  before 
the  word  and  give  it  a  salient  stress.  The 
movement  of  the  voice  through  these  two 
lines  has  been  deliberate.  On  the  next  line 
hasten  it  a  little,  and  make  the  pause  at  the 
close  of  the  line  shorter.  With  the  fourth 
line,  let  the  tone  settle  down  to  work.  Give 
each  of  the  first  five  words  equal  stress.  With 
the  fifth  and  last  line  let  us  feel  that  you  may 
"go  on  forever,"  and  surprise  us  with  a  very 
short  pause  and  a  joyful  stress  upon  "at 
last,  at  last,"  and  don't  fail  to  let  the  en- 
thusiasm of  your  tone  give  us  the  full  sense 
of  relief  which  comes  with  the  mounting  of 
the  water;  and  the  delight  in  the  conclusion 
•"he  was  able  to  quench  his  thirst  and  save 
his  life."  And  now,  most  whimsically,  let  us 
voice  the  moral,  "Little  by  little  does  the 
trick." 


IV 

LYRIC    POETRY 

WE  turn  now  in  our  study,  from  didactic 
prose  to  lyric  poetry.  We  do  so  be- 
cause the  direct  appeal  of  a  lyric  poem  is  to 
the  emotions.  The  nature  of  the  demand  upon 
the  interpreter  changes.  And  new  power  is 
developed  along  new  lines.  While  literature, 
whatever  its  form,  must  compel  the  reader's 
thought,  its  predominant  appeal  in  poetry 
must  be  to  emotion.  In  our  study  of  tech- 
nique we  learned  that  tone-color  was  the 
vocal  language  of  emotion.  So  the  vocal  in- 
terpretation of  poetry  (whether  lyric,  pas- 
toral, or  didactic)  demands,  above  all,  a  mas- 
tery of  this  element  of  our  vocabulary.  The 
reading  of  poetry  also  demands  a  sense  of 
rhythm,  metre,  and  rhyme.  Can  this  sense 
be  developed?  Yes!  It  should  be  a  part  of 

112 


LYRIC    POETRY 

the  training  of  every  child's  soul.  How  can 
it  be  accomplished?  Read  poetry  to  him 
and  with  him. 

We  shall  take  for  our  study  of  the  lyric 
Shelley's  ode,  "To  a  Skylark."  I  shall  ana- 
lyze in  detail  only  the  first  five  stanzas : 

"Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  them  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art. 

"Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire, 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest. 

"In  the  golden  lightning 

Of  the  sunken  sun 
O'er  which  clouds  are  brightening, 

Thou  dost  float  and  run, 
Like  an  unbodied  joy  whose  race  is  just  begun. 

"The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight; 
Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  but  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight. 

M3 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 
In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there." 

How  shall  we  create  an  atmosphere  for  the 
reading  of  these  verses!  How  can  we  catch 
the  spirit  of  the  creator  of  them!  Shall  we 
ever  feel  ready  to  voice  that  first  line  ?  Do  you 
know  Jules  Breton's  picture,  "The  Lark"? 
Do  you  love  it?  Go,  then,  and  stand  before 
it  for  an  hour,  actually  or  in  imagination. 
Something  of  the  spirit  which  informs  that 
lovely  child,  lifting  her  eyes,  her  head  in  an 
attitude  of  listening  rapture,  must  steal  over 
you  as  you  stand  before  her.  I  know  her 
power.  I  have  tested  it.  In  reading  the 
"Skylark"  with  a  class  of  boys  and  girls 
from  twelve  to  fourteen  years  old,  I  tried 
the  experiment.  I  happened  to  have  with 
me  a  beautiful  copy  of  Breton's  picture.  I 
took  it  to  the  class-room.  I  wrote  on  the 
blackboard  verses  of  the  poem  and  hung  the 
picture  over  them.  The  picture  taught  them 
to  read  the  poem.  The  eyes  of  the  girl  be- 
114 


LYR1G    POETRY 

came  their  teacher.  I  tried  the  experiment, 
with  a  private  pupil  in  my  studio,  with  a 
somewhat  different  result.  I  had  told  her 
to  bring  a  copy  of  Shelley's  poems  to  her 
next  lesson.  "  Do  you  know  the  ode  'To  a 
Skylark'?"  I  asked.  "Yes,"  she  said.  A 
copy  of  Breton's  picture  hung  on  the  wall. 
"Before  you  open  your  book,  look  at  the 
picture,"  I  said.  She  obeyed.  Her  expres- 
sion, always  radiant,  deepened  its  radiance. 
"Do  you  know  what  the  girl  is  doing?"  I 
asked.  "Oh  yes,  she  is  listening  to  the  sky- 
lark." " How  do  you  know ? "  "I  have  heard 
the  skylark  sing."  "I  never  have,"  I  said. 
"Read  the  poem  to  me."  Now  when  I  read 
the  "  Skylark,"  I  see  the  girl  in  Jules  Breton's 
picture,  but  I  hear  the  voice  of  my  English 
pupil. 

But  if  our  apperceptive  background  fails 
to  furnish  a  memory  of  the  identical  sight 
and  sound  for  our  inspiring,  it  at  least 
holds  bird  notes  and  bird  flights  of  great 
beauty,  and  we  must  call  upon  these 
for  the  impulse  to  voice  Shelley's  apostro- 
phe: 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"Hail  to  thee,  blithe  Spirit! 

Bird  thou  never  wert, 
That  from  heaven,  or  near  it 

Pourest  thy  full  heart 
In  profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art." 


An  early  autumn  number,  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly  for  1907  published  a  poem  by  Mr. 
Ridgley  Torrence,  entitled  "The  Lesser  Chil- 
dren," or  "  A  Threnody  at  the  Hunting  Sea- 
son." The  poem  is  worthy,  in  sentiment  and 
structure,  to  be  set  beside  Shelley's  ode.  Let 
us  compare  with  the  picture  which  the  eigh- 
teenth-century poet  has  given  us,  this  one 
from  our  modern  song- writer: 


Who  has  not  seen  in  the  high  gulf  of  light 
What,  lower,  was  a  bird,  but  now 
Is  moored  and  altered  quite 
Into  an  island  of  unshaded  joy? 
To  whom  the  mate  below  upon  the  bough 
Shouts  once  and  brings  him  from  his  high  employ. 
Yet  speeding  he  forgot  not  of  the  cloud 
Where  he  from  glory  sprang  and  burned  aloud, 
But  took  a  little  of  the  day, 
A  little  of  the  colored  sky, 
And  of  the  joy  that  would  not  stay 
He  wove  a  song  that  cannot  die." 
116 


LYRIC    POETRY 

Now  let  us  study  closely  the  first  verse 
of  the  older  poem.  Spirit  and  voice  must 
soar  in  the  first  line,  "Hail  to  thee,  blithe 
Spirit !"  The  two  words  ' ' hail ' '  and  ' ' blithe ' ' 
are  swift-winged  words.  Let  them  fly.  Give 
them  their  wings.  Let  them  do  all  they  are 
intended  to  do.  The  rhythm  of  the  whole 
poem  is  aspiring.  Reverence  the  rhythm, 
but  keep  the  thought  floating  clear  above  it 
in  the  second  line,  "Bird  thou  never  wert." 
With  the  next  two  lines  the  tone  must  gather 
head  to  be  poured  forth  in  the  last  line,  "In 
profuse  strains  of  unpremeditated  art."  Let 
us  make  another  comparative  study.  Set  on 
the  other  side  of  this  picture  Lowell's  de- 
scription of  the  "little  bird"  in  his  prologue 
to  Sir  Launfal's  vision: 

"The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives." 

The  second  verse  of  the  "Skylark"  de- 
mands a  still  higher  flight  of  imagination  and 
tone.  Let  us  try  it. 

117 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"Higher  still  and  higher 

From  the  earth  thou  springest, 
Like  a  cloud  of  fire 

The  blue  deep  thou  wingest, 
And  singing  still  dost  soar,  and  soaring  ever  singest." 

Again  all  the  words  rise  and  float.  Sing 
them  over  :  higher,  higher,  springest,  fire, 
wingest,  singing,  soar,  soaring,  singest.  The 
reader  must  feel  himself  poised  for  flight  in 
every  word  of  the  first  three  verses.  Why 
does  the  poet  say  cloud  of  fire  ?  What  is  the 
color  of  the  skylark?  And  now  the  tone, 
which  has  been  of  a  radiant  hue  through 
these  three  verses,  must  soften  a  little  in  the 
first  three  lines  of  the  next  verse — 

"The  pale  purple  even 

Melts  around  thy  flight"; — • 

glow  gold  again  in  the  last  three  lines — 

"Like  a  star  of  heaven 

In  the  broad  daylight 
Thou  art  unseen,  and  yet  I  hear  thy  shrill  delight " — 

and  become  the  white  of  an  incandescent 
light  in  the  next  verse — 
118 


LYRIC    POETRY 

"Keen  as  are  the  arrows 
Of  that  silver  sphere 
Whose  intense  lamp  narrows 

In  the  white  dawn  clear, 
Until  we  hardly  see,  we  feel  that  it  is  there." 

Do  you  not  see  that  the  secret  of  its  beauty 
lies,  for  vocal  interpretation,  in  the  color  of 
tone  and  in  the  inflection  of  the  words  ?  Say 
"unseen,"  dwelling  on  the  second  syllable; 
"shrill  delight,"  directing  shrill  over  the 
head  of  delight;  "keen,"  making  it  cleave 
the  air  like  an  arrow;  "silver  sphere,"  sug- 
gesting a  moonlit  path  across  water;  "in- 
tense" and  "narrows,"  letting  the  tone  re- 
cede into  the  "white  dawn";  "see,"  with  a 
vanishing  stress;  and  "feel,"  with  a  deep- 
ening note  carried  to  the  end.  So  we  might 
go  on  through  the  twenty-one  stanzas  which 
make  up  the  poem. 

Please  analyze  undirected  the  next  two 
verses. 

"All  the  earth  and  air 

With  thy  voice  is  loud, 
As,  when  night  is  bare, 

From  one  lonely  cloud 

The  moon  rains  out  her  beams,   and  heaven   is 
overflow'd. 

119 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"What  thou  art  we  know  not; 

What  is  most  like  thee? 
From  rainbow  clouds  there  flow  not 

Drops  so  bright  to  see 
As  from  thy  presence  showers  a  rain  of  melody." 

In  reading  the  first  lines  of  the  next  four 
verses  we  must  avoid  monotony. 

"Like  a  poet  hidden 

In  the  light  of  thought, 
Singing  hymns  unbidden, 

Till  the  world  is  wrought 
To  sympathy  with  hopes  and  fears  it  heeded  not: 

"Like  a  high-born  maiden 

In  a  palace  tower, 
Soothing  her  love-laden 

Soul  in  secret  hour 
With  music  sweet  as  love,  which  overflows  her  bower : 

"Like  a  glowworm  golden 

In  a  dell  of  dew, 
Scattering  unbeholden 

Its  aerial  hue 

Among  the  flowers  and  grass,  which  screen  it  from 
the  view: 

"Like  a  rose  embower' d 

In  its  own  green  leaves, 
By  warm  winds  deflower 'd, 

Till  the  scent  it  gives 

Makes  faint  with  too  much  sweet  these  heavy- 
winged  thieves." 

120 


LYRIC    POETRY 

Vary,  if  only  for  variety,  the  pitch  on 
which  you  begin  each  of  these  first  lines. 
Let  the  first  three  words  of  the  eighth  verse, 
"like  a  poet,"  ascend  in  pitch.  Keep  the 
voice  level  in  the  first  line  of  the  ninth  verse, 
"like  a  high-born  maiden."  Let  the  pitch 
fall  in  the  first  words  of  the  tenth  stanza, 
"like  a  glowworm  golden."  And  again  keep 
the  tone  level  on  the  first  line  of  the  next 
stanza,  "like  a  rose  embower'd."  I  leave  to 
you  the  analysis  of  the  rest  of  the  poem : 

"Sound  of  vernal  showers 

On  the  twinkling  grass, 
Rain-awaken 'd  flowers, 

All  that  ever  was 

Joyous,  and  clear,  and  fresh,  thy  music  doth  sur- 
pass. 

"Teach  us,  sprite  or  bird, 

What  sweet  thoughts  are  thine: 
I  have  never  heard 

Praise  of  love  or  wine 
That  panted  forth  a  flood  of  rapture  so  divine. 

"Chorus  hymeneal 

Or  triumphal  chaunt 
Match'd  with  thine,  would  be  all 

But  an  empty  vaunt — 

A  thing  wherein  we  feel  there  is  some  hidden  want. 
121 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"What  objects  are  the  fountains 

Of  thy  happy  strain? 
What  field,  or  waves,  or  mountains? 

What  shapes  of  sky  or  plain? 
What  love  of  thine  own  kind?    what  ignorance  of 
pain? 

"With  thy  clear,  keen  joyance 

Languor  cannot  be: 
Shadow  of  annoyance 

Never  came  near  thee: 
Thou  lovest;  but  ne'er  knew  love's  sad  satiety. 

"Waking  or  asleep 

Thou  of  death  must  deem 
Things  more  true  and  deep 
Than  we  mortals  dream, 

Or  how  could  thy  notes  flow  in  such  a  crystal 
stream  ? 

"We  look  before  and  after, 

And  pine  for  what  is  not: 
Our  sincerest  laughter 

With  some  pain  is  fraught; 

Our  sweetest  songs  are  those  that  tell  of  saddest 
thought. 

"Yet  if  we  could  scorn 

Hate  and  pride  and  fear; 
If  we  were  things  born 

Not  to  shed  a  tear, 
I  know  not  how  thy  joy  we  ever  should  come  near. 

122 


LYRIC    POETRY 

"Better  than  all  measures 

Of  delightful  sound, 
Better  than  all  treasures 

That  in  books  are  found, 
Thy  skill  to  poet  were,  thou  scorner  of  the  ground! 

"Teach  me  half  the  gladness 

That  thy  brain  must  know, 
Such  harmonious  madness 

From  my  lips  would  flow, 

The  world  should  listen  then,   as  I  am  listening 
now!"  — P.  B.  SHELLEY. 

The  following  selections  from  lyric  poetry 
are  designed  to  give  your  voice  exercise  in 
the  expression  of  varied  emotions.  I  under- 
stand that  Dr.  Curry  makes  the  reading  of 
joyous  lyrics  an  important  part  of  his  voice 
programme. 

HUNTING  SONG 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day; 
All  the  jolly  chase  is  here 
With  hawk  and  horse  and  hunting-spear; 
Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 
Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling, 
Merrily,  merrily  mingle  they, 
'Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 
123 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 
Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 
Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming; 
And  foresters  have  busy  been 
To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green; 
Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay 
'Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

"Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot  and  tall  of  size; 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd; 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay; 
*  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay.' 

"  Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay! 
Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we; 
Time,  stern  huntsman!    who  can  baulk, 
Stanch  as  hound  and  fleet  as  hawk; 
Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay!" 

—SIR  W.  SCOTT. 


It  was  a  lover  and  his  lass 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho,  and  a  hey  nonino! 
That  o'er  the  green  cornfield  did  pass 
124 


LYRIC    POETRY 

In  the  spring-time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding: 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring. 

"  Between  the  acres  of  the  rye 
These  pretty  country  folks  would  lie: 
This  carol  they  began  that  hour, 
How,  that  life  was  but  a  flower: 

' '  And  therefore  take  the  present  time 

With  a  hey  and  a  ho  and  a  hey  nonino! 
For  love  is  crowned  with  the  prime 
In  spring-time,  the  only  pretty  ring  time, 
When  birds  do  sing  hey  ding  a  ding: 
Sweet  lovers  love  the  Spring." 

— W.  SHAKESPEARE. 


"  Pack,  clouds,  away,  and  welcome  day, 

With  night  we  banish  sorrow; 
Sweet  air  blow  soft,  mount  larks  aloft 

To  give  my  Love  good-morrow! 
Wings  from  the  wind  to  please  her  mind 

Notes  from  the  lark  I'll  borrow; 
Bird,  prune  thy  wing,  nightingale  sing, 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Notes  from  them  both  I'll  borrow. 

"Wake  from  thy  nest,  Robin-redbreast, 

Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow; 
And  from  each  hill,  let  music  shrill 
Give  my  fair  Love  good-morrow! 
9  125 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Blackbird  and  thrush  in  every  bush, 

Stare,  linnet,  and  cock-sparrow! 
You  pretty  elves,  among  yourselves 
Sing  my  fair  Love  good-morrow; 
To  give  my  Love  good-morrow 
Sing,  birds,  in  every  furrow!" 

— T.  HEYWOOD. 


MEMORY1 

"  My  mind  lets  go  a  thousand  things, 
Like  dates  of  wars  and  deaths  of  kings, 
And  yet  recalls  the  very  hour — 
'Twas  noon  by  yonder  village  tower, 
And  on  the  last  blue  noon  in  May — 
The  wind  came  briskly  up  this  way, 
Crisping  the  brook  beside  the  road; 
Then,  pausing  here,  set  down  its  load 
Of  pine-scents,  and  shook  listlessly 
Two  petals  from  that  wild-rose-tree." 


ENAMOURED  ARCHITECT  OF  AIRY  RHYME 

"  Enamoured  architect  of  airy  rhyme, 

Build  as  thou  wilt ;  heed  not  what  each  man 

says: 

Good  souls,  but  innocent  of  dreamer's  way:;, 
Will  come,  and  marvel  why  thou  wastest  time; 
Others,  beholding  how  thy  turrets  climb 

1  This  and  the  following  poem  appear  by  special  per- 
mission of  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  the  publishers  of  Mr. 
Aldrich's  poems. 

126 


LYRIC    POETRY 

'Twixt  theirs  and  heaven,  will  hate  thee  all  thy 

days; 

But  most  beware  of  those  who  come  to  praise. 
O  Wondersmith,  O  Worker  in  sublime 
And  Heaven-sent  dreams,  let  art  be  all  in  all; 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  unspoiled  by  praise  or  blame, 
Build  as  thou  wilt,  and  as  thy  light  is  given: 
Then,  if  at  last  the  airy  structure  fall, 

Dissolve,  and  vanish — take  thyself  no  shame. 
They  fail,  and  they  alone, who  have  not  striven. 
— THOMAS  BAILEY  ALDRICH. 


LOVE   IN   THE  WINDS1 

"  When  I  am  standing  on  a  mountain  crest, 

Or  hold  the  tiller  in  the  dashing  spray, 
My  love  of  you  leaps  foaming  in  my  breast, 

Shouts  with  the  winds  and  sweeps  to  their  foray ; 
My  heart  bounds  with  the  horses  of  the  sea, 

And  plunges  in  the  wild  ride  of  the  night, 
Flaunts  in  the  teeth  of  tempest  the  large  glee 

That  rides  out  Fate  and  welcomes  gods  to  fight. 
Ho,  love,  I  laugh  aloud  for  love  of  you, 

Glad  that  our  love  is  fellow  to  rough  weather, — 
No  fretful  orchid  hot-housed  from  the  dew, 

But  hale  and  hardy  as  the  highland  heather, 
Rejoicing  in  the  wind  that  stings  and  thrills, 
Comrades  of  ocean,  playmate  of  the  hills." 

— RICHARD  HOVEY. 

1  From  "Along  the  Trail,"  by  Richard  Hovey. 
Copyright,  1898,  by  Small,  Maynard,  &  Co.,  Duffield  & 
Company,  successors. 

127 


THE  SPEAKING    VOICE 
CANDLEMAS1 

"  O  hearken,  all  ye  little  weeds 

That  lie  beneath  the  snow, 

(So  low,  dear  hearts,  in  poverty  so  low!) 
The  sun  hath  risen  for  royal  deeds, 
A  valiant  wind  the  vanguard  leads; 
Now  quicken  ye,  lest  unborn  seeds 

Before  ye  rise  and  blow. 

"  O  furry  living  things,  adream 

On  Winter's  drowsy  breast, 

(How  rest  ye  there,  how  softly,  safely  rest!) 
Arise  and  follow  where  a  gleam 
Of  wizard  gold  unbinds  the  stream, 
And  all  the  woodland  windings  seem 

With  sweet  expectance  blest. 

"My  birds,  come  back!  the  hollow  sky 
Is  weary  for  your  note. 
(Sweet-throat,  come  back!     O  liquid,  mellow 

throat!) 

Ere  May's  soft  minions  hereward  fly, 
Shame  on  ye,  laggards,  to  deny 
The  brooding  breast,  the  sun-bright  eye, 
The  tawny,  shining  coat!" 

— ALICE  BROWN. 

"  She  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleam'd  upon  my  sight; 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament; 

1  By  permission  of  Houghton,  Mifflin  Co. 
128 


LYRIC    POETRY 

Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 
Like  Twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn; 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn; 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 


"  I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too! 
Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 
And  steps  of  virgin-liberty; 
A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 
Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet; 
A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 
For  human  nature's  daily  food, 
For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 
Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 


And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine; 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death: 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill; 
A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  plann'd 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command; 
And  yet  a  Spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light." 

— W.  WORDSWORTH, 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

NONSENSE    LYRICS 

TOPSY-TURVY   WORLD 

If  the  butterfly  courted  the  bee, 

And  the  owl  the  porcupine; 
If  churches  were  built  in  the  sea, 

And  three  times  one  was  nine; 
If  the  pony  rode  his  master, 

If  the  buttercups  ate  the  cows, 
If  the  cats  had  the  dire  disaster 

To  be  worried,  sir,  by  the  mouse; 
If  mamma,  sir,  sold  the  baby 

To  a  gypsy  for  half  a  crown; 
If  a  gentleman,  sir,  was  a  lady, 

The  world  would  be  Upside-down! 
If  any  or  all  of  these  wonders 

Should  ever  come  about, 
I  should  not  consider  them  blunders, 

For  I  should  be  inside-out! 

CHORUS 

Ba-ba  black  wool, 

Have  you  any  sheep? 
Yes,  sir,  a  pack  full. 

Creep,  mouse,  creep! 
Four-and-twenty  little  maids 

Hanging  out  the  pie, 
Out  jump'd  the  honey-pot, 

Guy  Fawkes,  Guy! 


LYRIC    POETRY 

Cross  latch,  cross  latch. 

Sit  and  spin  the  fire; 
When  the  pie  was  open'd, 

The  bird  was  on  the  brier! 

— WILLIAM  BRIGHTY  RANDS. 


I   SAW  A  NEW  WORLD 

I  saw  a  new  world  in  my  dream, 
Where  all  the  folks  alike  did  seem: 
There  was  no  Child,  there  was  no  Mother, 
There  was  no  Change,  there  was  no  Other. 

For  everything  was  Same,  the  Same; 
There  was  no  praise,  there  was  no  blame; 
There  was  neither  Need  nor  Help  for  it; 
There  was  nothing  fitting  or  unfit. 

Nobody  laugh'd,  nobody  wept; 

None  grew  weary,  so  none  slept; 

There  was  nobody  born,  and  nobody  wed; 

This  world  was  a  world  of  the  living-dead. 

I  long'd  to  hear  the  Time-Clock  strike 
In  the  world  where  people  were  all  alike; 
I  hated  Same,  I  hated  Forever; 
I  long'd  to  say  Neither,  or  even  Never. 

I  long'd  to  mend,  I  long'd  to  make; 
I  long'd  to  give,  I  long'd  to  take; 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

I  long'd  for  a  change,  whatever  came  after, 
I  long'd  for  crying,  I  long'd  for  laughter. 

At  last  I  heard  the  Time-Clock  boom, 
And  woke  from  my  dream  in  my  little  room; 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  my  Mother  was  nigh, 
And  I  heard  the  baby  crow  and  cry. 

And  I  thought  to  myself,  How  nice  it  is 
For  me  to  live  in  a  world  like  this, 
Where  things  can  happen,  and  clocks  can  strike, 
And  none  of  the  people  are  made  alike; 

Where  Love  wants  this,  and  Pain  wants  that, 

Where  all  our  hearts  want  Tit  for  Tat 

In  the  jumbles  we  make  with  our  heads  and  our 

hands, 
In  a  world  that  nobody  understands, 

But  with  work  and  hope,  and  the  right  to  call 
Upon  Him  who  sees  it  and  knows  us  all! 

— WILLIAM  BRIGHTY  RANDS. 


Besides  the  rivers,  Arve  and  Arveiron,  which 
have  their  sources  in  the  foot  of  Mount  Blanc, 
five  conspicuous  torrents  rush  down  its  sides ; 
and  within  a  few  paces  of  the  Glaciers,  the 
Gentiana  Major  grows  in  immense  numbers, 
with  its  "flowers  of  loveliest  blue." 
132 


LYRIC    POETRY 
HYMN 

BEFORE   SUNRISE,    IN   THE   VALE    OF    CHAMOUNI 

"  Hast  them  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning-star 
In  his  steep  course  ?     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 
On  thy  bald  awful  head,  O  sovran  Blanc! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Rave  ceaselessly;    but  thou,  most  awful  Form! 
Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently!     Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass:    methinks  thou  piercest  it, 
As  with  a  wedge!     But  when  I  look  again, 
It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine, 
Thy  habitation  from  eternity! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount!     I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 
Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  worshipped  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody, 

So  sweet,  we  know  not  we  are  listening  to  it, 

Thou,  the   meanwhile,   wast  blending  with  my 

thought, 

Yea,  with  my  life  and  life's  own  secret  joy: 
Till  the  dilating  Soul,  enrapt,  transfused, 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing— there 
As  in  her  natural  form,  swelled  vast  to  Heaven! 

Awake,  my  Soul!    not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest!   not  alone  these  swelling  tears, 
Mute  thanks  and  secret  ecstasy!     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song!     Awake,  my  Heart,  awake'. 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  Hvmn. 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovran  of  the  Vale! 
O  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night, 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky  or  when  they  sink; 
Companion  of  the  morning-star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  Earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald:   wake,  O  wake,  and  utter  praise! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  Rocks, 
Forever  shattered  and  the  same  forever? 

Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 

Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your 

joy, 

Unceasing  thunder  and  eternal  foam? 
And  who  commanded  (and  the  silence  came), 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest? 

Ye  ice-falls!   ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice, 
And  stopped  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents!   silent  cataracts! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  Heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  Sun 
Clothe  you  with    rainbows?     Who,  with   living 
flowers 


LYRIC    POETRY 

Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet? — 
God!   let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations, 
Answer!    and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God! 
God!    sing  ye   meadow  -  streams   with  gladsome 

voice ! 
Ye  pine -groves,  with  your  soft  and  soul -like 

sounds ! 

And  they  too  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow, 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  the  eternal  frost! 
Ye  wild  goats  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest! 
Ye  eagles,  play-mates  of  the  mountain-storm! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise! 

Thou  too,  hoar  Mount!   with   thy  sky-pointing 

peaks, 

Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through    the    pure 

serene 

Into  the  depth  of  clouds  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again — stupendous  Mountain!    thou 
That  as  I  raise  my  head,  awhile  bowed  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest  like  a  vapory  cloud, 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  O  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  Earth! 
Thou  kingly  Spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  Earth  to  Heaven, 
Great  hierarch!   tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God." 
— SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


JAUN'S   SONG   FROM    "THE   SPANISH 
GYPSY  " 

I 

"  Memory, 
Tell  to  me 
What  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  Tubal? 

Is  it  Spring's 
Lovely  things, 
Blossoms  white, 
Rosy  dight? 
Then  it  is  Pepita. 

Summer's  crest 
Red-gold  tressed, 

Corn-flowers  peeping  under? 
Idle  noons, 
Lingering  moons, 
Sudden  cloud, 
Lightning's  shroud, 
Sudden  rain, 
Quick  again 

Smiles  where  late  was  thunder? 
Are  all  these 
Made  to  please? 

So  too  is  Pepita. 

136 


LYRIC    POETRY 

Autumn's  prime, 
Apple-time, 
Smooth  cheek  round, 
Heart  all  sound? — 
Is  it  this 
You  would  kiss? 
Then  it  is  Pepita. 

You  can  bring 
No  sweet  thing, 
But  my  mind 
Still  shall  find 
It  is  my  Pepita. 

Memory 
Says  to  me 
It  is  she — 
She  is  fair 
Past  compare 

In  the  land  of  Tubal." 


PABLO'S   SONG   FROM    "THE   SPANISH 
GYPSY  " 


"  Spring  conies  hither, 

Buds  the  rose; 
Roses  wither, 

Sweet  spring  goes. 

Ojala,  would  she  carry  me! 

137 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Summer  soars — 

Wide-winged  day, 
White  light  pours, 

Flies  away. 

Ojald,  would  he  carry  me! 


Soft  winds  blow, 

Westward  born, 
Onward  go 

Toward  the  morn. 

Ojala,  would  they  carry  me! 


Sweet  birds  sing 

O'er  the  graves, 
Then  take  wing 
O'er  the  waves. 

Ojala,  would  they  carry  me!' 
— GEORGE  ELIOT. 


Mr.  Gilbert  Chesterton  tells  us  that  the 
real  Robert  Browning  of  literary  history 
arrived  with  the  Dramatic  Lyrics.  "In 
Dramatic  Lyrics,"  says  Mr.  Chesterton, 
"Browning  discovered  the  one  thing  that  he 
could  really  do  better  than  any  one  else— 
the  dramatic  lyric.  The  form  is  absolutely 
original:  he  had  discovered  a  new  field  of 

138 


LYRIC    POETRY 

poetry,  and  in  the  centre  of  that  field  he  had 
found  himself."  The  form  is  new,  but  it 
obeys  the  fundamental  law  of  lyric  poetry, 
and  so  in  our  study  belongs  to  this  chapter. 
The  new  element  which  the  word  "dramat- 
ic" suggests  makes  a  new  and  a  somewhat 
broader  demand  upon  the  interpreter;  there- 
fore I  have  chosen  this  group  of  Dramatic 
Lyrics  from  Browning  as  the  material  for 
your  final  study  of  this  form: 


MY  STAR 

"  All  that  I  know 

Of  a  certain  star 
Is,  it  can  throw 

(Like  the  angled  spar) 
Now  a  dart  of  red, 

Now  a  dart  of  blue; 
Till  my  friends  have  said 

They  would  fain  see,  too, 

My  star  that  dartles  the  red  and  the  blue! 
Then  it  stops  like  a  bird ;  like  a  flower,  hangs  furled : 

They  must  solace  themselves  with  the  Saturn 

above  it. 
What  matter  to  me  if  their  star  is  a  world? 

Mine  has  opened  its  soul  to  me;  therefore  I 
love  it." 

139 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 
CAVALIER  TUNES 

MARCHING    ALONG 


"  Kentish  Sir  Byng  stood  for  his  King, 
Bidding  the  crop-headed  Parliament  swing: 
And,  pressing  a  troop  unable  to  stoop 
And  see  the  rogues  nourish  and  honest  folk  droop, 
Marched  them  along,  fifty-score  strong, 
Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

II 

God  for  King  Charles!     Pym  and  such  carles 
To  the  Devil  that  prompts  'em  their  treasonous 

paries ! 

Cavaliers,  up!     Lips  from  the  cup, 
Hands  from  the  pasty,  nor  bite  take  nor  sup 
Till  you're — 
(Chorus)  Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song. 

Ill 

Hampden  to  hell,  and  his  obsequies'  knell 
Serve  Hazelrig,  Fiennes,  and  young  Harry  as  well ! 
England,  good  cheer!     Rupert  is  near! 
Kentish  and  loyalists,  keep  we  not  here, 

(Chorus)  Marching  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song  ? 
140 


LYRIC    POETRY 

IV 

Then,  God  for  King  Charles !     Pym  and  his  snarls 
To  the  Devil  that  pricks  on  such  pestilent  carles ! 
Hold  by  the  right,  you  double  your  might; 
So,  onward  to  Nottingham,  fresh  for  the  fight.  • 
(Chorus)  March  we  along,  fifty-score  strong, 

Great-hearted  gentlemen,  singing  this  song!" 


GARDEN   FANCIES 
THE   FLOWER'S   NAME 

I 

Here's  the  garden  she  walked  across, 

Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since. 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung; 
For  she  laid   the   poor  snail,   my  chance   foot 
spurned, 

To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

II 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel  walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box: 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 

xo  141 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by! 
She  loves  you  noble  roses,  I  know; 

But  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie! 

Ill 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name. 
What  a  name!     Was  it  love  or  praise? 

Speech  half-asleep  or  song  half -awake? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 

IV 

Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase; 
But  do  not  detain  me  now;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 


Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 
Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  forever! 

Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  'tis  that  you  blow  not: 
Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never! 
142 


LYRIC    POETRY 

For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 
Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 

Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle — 
Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen? 

VI 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with 

me? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  footfall! 
— Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces — 

Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all!" 

— ROBERT  BROWNING. 


DIDACTIC   POETRY 

IP  our  study  of  didactic  prose  and  lyric 
poetry  has  been  faithful  we  shall  have 
learned  to  think  more  vividly  and  to  feel 
more  intelligently.  We  shall  also  find  that 
our  speech  has  gained  precision  and  that  our 
tone  has  gained  purity  and  power. 

I  shall  ask  you  to  test  your  own  increase 
in  power  along  any  of  these  lines  by  a  self- 
directed  study  of  didactic  poetry.  I  give 
you  the  didactic  poem  because  it  makes  a 
double  appeal:  through  its  form  to  emotion; 
through  its  aim  to  the  mind.  I  have  given 
you  examples  of  this  form  in  which  the 
beauty  and  fascination  of  metre,  rhythm, 
and  rhyme  and  the  didactic  nature  of  the 
thought  do  not  seem  to  overbalance  each 
other.  If  either  one  should  predominate, 
144 


DIDACTIC    POETRY 

you  must,  by  your  interpretation,  strike  the 
balance.  In  reading  Robert  Browning's 
"Rabbi  Ben  Ezra"  (from  which  I  shall 
quote  but  a  few  verses)  you  must  carry  to 
your  auditor  the  full  import  of  the  philoso- 
phy, but  in  doing  so  you  must  not  lose  the 
beauty  of  the  verse  in  which  the  poet  has 
set  it. 

RABBI   BEN  EZRA 


Grow  old  along  with  me! 
The  best  is  yet  to  be, 

The  last  of  life,  for  which  the  first  was  made: 
Our  times  are  in  His  hand 
Who  saith,  'A  whole  I  planned, 

Youth  shows  but  half /trust  God:  see  all,  nor 
be  afraid!' 

II 

Not  that,  amassing  flowers, 

Youth  sighed,  'Which  rose  makes  ours, 

Which  lily  leave  and  then  as  best  recall'? 
Not  that,  admiring  stars, 
It  yearned,  'Nor  Jove,  nor  Mars; 

Mine  be  some  figured  flame  which  blends,  tran- 
scends them  all'! 

MS 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 
III 

Not  for  such  hopes  and  fears 
Annulling  youth's  brief  years, 

Do  I  remonstrate:  folly  wide  the  mark! 
Rather  I  prize  the  doubt 
Low  kinds  exist  without, 

Finished  and   finite   clods,   untroubled    by 
spark. 


VI 

Then,  welcome  each  rebuff 

That  turns  earth's  smoothness  rough, 

Each  sting  that  bids  nor  sit  nor  stand  but  go ! 
Be  our  joys  three-parts  pain! 
Strive  and  hold  cheap  the  strain; 

Learn,    nor   account   the   pang ;    dare,   never 
grudge  the  throe! 

VII 

For  thence — a  paradox 

Which  comforts  while  it  mocks — 

Shall  life  succeed  in  that  it  seems  to  fail: 
What  I  aspired  to  be, 
And  was  not,  comforts  me: 

A  brute   I  might  have  been,  but  would  not 
sink  i'  the  scale. 


DIDACTIC    POETRY 

XXII 

Now,  who  shall  arbitrate? 
Ten  men  love  what  I  hate, 

Shun  what  I  follow,  slight  what  I  receive; 
Ten,  who  in  ears  and  eyes 
Match  me:  we  all  surmise, 

They,  this  thing,  and  I,  that:  whom  shall  my 
soul  believe? 

XXIII 

Not  on  the  vulgar  mass 

Called  'work,'  must  sentence  pass, 

Things  done,  that  took  the  eye  and  had  the 

price ; 

O'er  which,  from  level  stand, 
The  low  world  laid  its  hand, 

Found  straightway  to  its  mind,  could  value  in 
a  trice: 

XXIV 

But  all,  the  world's  coarse  thumb 
And  finger  failed  to  plumb, 

So  passed  in  making  up  the  main  account: 
All  instincts  immature, 
All  purposes  unsure, 

That  weighed  not  as  his  work,  yet  swelled  the 
man's  amount: 

XXV 

Thoughts  hardly  to  be  packed 
Into  a  narrow  act, 

Fancies  that  broke  through  language  and  es- 
cape4; 

?47 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

All  I  could  never  be, 
All,  men  ignored  in  me, 

This,  I  was  worth   to  God,  whose  wheel   the 
pitchjer  shaped." 

— ROBERT  BROWNING. 


FORBEARANCE 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun-? 
Loved  the  wood-rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk? 
At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse? 
Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust? 
And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 
In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  re- 
frained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay? 
O,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine!" 


EACH   AND   ALL 

"  Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 
Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down; 
The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 
Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm; 
The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 
Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 
Stops  his  horse  and  lists  with  delight, 
Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height; 
Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 
Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 
148 


DIDACTIC    POETRY 

All  are  needed  by  each  one; 
Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 
I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 
Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough; 
I  brought  him  home,  in  his  nest,  at  even; 
He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now, 
For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky; — 
He  sang  to  my  ear, — they  sang  to  my  eye. 
The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore; 
The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 
Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave, 
And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 
Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 
I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 
I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home; 
But  the  poor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 
Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore 
With  the  sun  and  the  sand  and  the  wild  up- 
roar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid, 
As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed, 
Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 
Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 
At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 
Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage ; — 
The  gay  enchantment  was  undone, 
A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 
Then  I  said,  'I  covet  truth; 
Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat; 
I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth': — 
As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 
The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 
Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs; 
149 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird; — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole." 

— R.  W.  EMERSON. 


VI 

THE    SHORT   STORY 

IN  your  work  on  the  short  story  I  want 
you  to  study  two  distinctive  types:   the 
story  which  depends  for  its  interest  on  in- 
cident and  the  story  which  depends  for  its 
interest  on  character  development. 

I  want  you  to  study  side  by  side  with  this 
story  of  Mary  E.  Wilkins  one  of  Rudyard 
Kipling's  Jungle  Tales.  "  Rikki  Tikki  Tavi " 
is  a  good  example  of  the  story  of  incident.  The 
"Revolt  of  'Mother'"  is  a  good  example  of 
the  story  of  ' '  character  development . ' '  Both 
these  tales  obey  the  highest  laws  of  the  short 
story,  and  both  demand  of  the  reader  sus- 
tained vigor  of  the  imagination  and  spirit, 
and  so  of  tone  and  expression.  Both  stories 
are  simple  in  structure  and  in  language. 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

The  interest  of  Mrs.  Freeman's  story  lies  in 
the  characters  and  depends  for  its  quality 
of  movement  upon  the  increasing  vitality  of 
the  relation  between  the  characters.  Inter- 
est in  Mr.  Kipling's  story  is  one  of  incident. 
It  is  more  difficult  to  catch  and  hold  the 
attention  of  an  audience  with  the  New  Eng- 
land story  than  with  the  Jungle  tale,  because 
its  interest  is  more  subtle  and  its  movement 
less  pronounced.  The  reader  of  Mrs.  Free- 
man's story  must  understand  the  type  of 
character  she  has  presented  and  be  able  to 
feel  and  suggest  the  individual  atmosphere 
of  each  character.  The  reader  of  "Rikki 
Tikki  Tavi"  must  be  obsessed  with  the 
brave  spirit  of  the  little  mongoose,  and  sug- 
gest his  atmosphere  of  courage  and  unflinch- 
ing purpose.  Mrs.  Freeman's  story  must 
move  in  the  interpretation  with  the  move- 
ment of  the  characters  in  relation  to 
one  another  and  in  relation  to  the  under- 
lying philosophy  of  the  situation.  Mr. 
Kipling's  story  moves  along  a  path  of 
progressive  dramatic  incident  to  an  intense 
climax. 

152 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

THE  REVOLT  OF  "  MOTHER"1 

BY   MARY    E.    WILKINS 

"Father!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"What  are  them  men  diggin'  over  there  in 
the  field  for?" 

[There  was  a  sudden  dropping  and  enlarging 
of  the  lower  part  of  the  old  man's  face,  as  if 
some  heavy  weight  had  settled  therein;  he  shut 
his  mouth  tight,  and  went  on  harnessing  the 
great  bay  mare.  He  hustled  the  collar  on  to 
her  neck  with  a  jerk.] 2 

"Father!" 

The  old  man  slapped  the  saddle  upon  the 
mare's  back. 

"Look  here,  father,  I  want  to  know  what 
them  men  are  diggin'  over  in  the  field  for,  an' 
I'm  goin'  to  know." 

"  I  wish  you'd  go  into  the  house,  mother,  an' 
'tend  to  your  own  affairs,"  [the  old  man  said 
then.  He  ran  his  words  together,  and  his 
speech  was  almost  as  inarticulate  as  a  growl. 

1  From  A  New  England  Nun  and  Other  Stories.    Copy- 
right, 1891,  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 

2  The  brackets  indicate  portions  of  the  text  which 
may  be  omitted  in  presenting  the  story  from  the  plat- 
form. 

153 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

But  the  woman  understood;  it  was  her  most 
native  tongue.]  "I  ain't  goin'  into  the  house 
till  you  tell  me  what  them  men  are  doin'  over 
there  in  the  field,"  said  she. 

[Then  she  stood  waiting.  She  was  a  small 
woman,  short  and  straight- waisted  like  a  child 
in  her  brown  cotton  gown.  Her  forehead  was 
mild  and  benevolent  between  the  smooth  curves 
of  gray  hair;  there  were  meek  downward  lines 
about  her  nose  and  mouth;  but  her  eyes,  fixed 
upon  the  old  man,  looked  as  if  the  meekness 
had  been  the  result  of  her  own  will,  never  of  the 
will  of  another.] 

They  were  in  the  barn,  standing  before  the 
wide-open  doors.  The  spring  air,  full  of  the 
smell  of  growing  grass  and  unseen  blossoms, 
came  in  their  faces.  [The  deep  yard  in  front 
was  littered  with  farm-wagons  and  piles  of 
wood;  on  the  edges,  close  to  the  fence  and  the 
house,  the  grass  was  a  vivid  green,  and  there 
were  some  dandelions.] 

The  old  man  glanced  doggedly  at  his  wife  as 
he  tightened  the  last  buckles  on  the  harness. 
[She  looked  as  immovable  to  him  as  one  of  the 
rocks  in  his  pasture-land,  bound  to  the  earth 
with  generations  of  blackberry- vines.  He  slap- 
ped the  reins  over  the  horse  and  started  forth 
from  the  barn.] 

"Father!"  said  she. 

The  old  man  pulled  up.     "What  is  it?" 
154 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

"  I  want  to  know  what  them  men  are  diggin' 
over  there  in  that  field  for." 

"They're  diggin'  a  cellar,  I  s'pose,  if  you've 
got  to  know.'* 

"A  cellar  for  what?" 

"A  barn." 

"A  barn?  You  ain't  goin'  to  build  a  barn 
over  there  where  we  was  goin'  to  have  a  house, 
father?" 

The  old  man  said  not  another  word.  He  hur- 
ried the  horse  into  the  farm-wagon,  and  clat- 
tered out  of  the  yard,  [jouncing  as  sturdily  on 
his  seat  as  a  boy]. 

The  woman  stood  a  moment  looking  after 
him,  then  she  went  out  of  the  barn  across  a  cor- 
ner of  the  yard  to  the  house.  The  house, 
standing  at  right  angles  with  the  great  barn 
and  a  long  reach  of  sheds  and  out-buildings, 
was  infinitesimal  compared  with  them.  It  was 
scarcely  as  commodious  for  people  as  the  little 
boxes  under  the  barn  eaves  were  for  the  doves. 

A  pretty  girl's  face,  pink  and  delicate  as  a 
flower,  was  looking  out  of  one  of  the  house 
windows.  [She  was  watching  three  men  who 
were  digging  over  in  the  field  which  bounded 
the  yard  near  the  road-line.  She  turned  quietly 
when  the  woman  entered.] 

"What  are  they  digging  for,  mother?"  said 
she.  "Did  he  tell  you?" 

"They're  diggin'  for — a  cellar  for  a  new  barn." 

155 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"  Oh,  mother,  he  ain't  going  to  build  another 
barn?" 

"That's  what  he  says." 

A  boy  stood  before  the  kitchen  glass  combing 
his  hair.  [He  combed  slowly  and  painstakingly, 
arranging  his  brown  hair  in  a  smooth  hillock 
over  his  forehead.  He  did  not  seem  to  pay 
any  attention  to  the  conversation.] 

"Sammy,  did  you  know  father  was  going 
to  build  a  new  barn?"  asked  the  girl. 

The  boy  combed  assiduously. 

"Sammy!" 

[He  turned,  and  showed  a  face  like  his  father's 
under  his  smooth  crest  of  hair.]  "  Yes,  I  s'pose 
I  did,"  he  said,  reluctantly. 

"How  long  have  you  known  it?"  asked  his 
mother. 

"  'Bout  three  months,  I  guess." 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  of  it?" 

"  Didn't  think  'twould  do  no  good." 

"  I  don't  see  what  father  wants  another  barn 
for;"  said  the  girl,  in  her  sweet,  slow  voice. 
She  turned  again  to  the  window  and  stared  out 
at  the  digging  men  in  the  field.  Her  tender, 
sweet  face  was  full  of  a  gentle  distress.  [Her 
forehead  was  as  bald  and  innocent  as  a  baby's, 
with  the  light  hair  strained  back  from  it  in  a 
row  of  curl-papers.  She  was  quite  large,  but 
her  soft  curves  did  not  look  as  if  they  covered 
muscles.] 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

Her  mother  looked  sternly  at  the  boy.  "  Is 
he  goin'  to  buy  more  cows?"  said  she. 

The  boy  did  not  reply;  he  was  tying  his 
shoes. 

"  Sammy,  I  want  you  to  tell  me  if  he's  goin' 
to  buy  more  cows." 

"  I  s'pose  he  is." 

"How  many?" 

"Four,  I  guess." 

His  mother  said  nothing  more.  She  went 
into  the  pantry,  and  there  was  a  clatter  of 
dishes.  The  boy  got  his  cap  from  a  nail  behind 
the  door,  took  an  old  arithmetic  from  the  shelf, 
and  started  for  school.  [He  was  lightly  built, 
but  clumsy.  He  went  out  of  the  yard  with  a 
curious  spring  in  the  hips  that  made  his  loose 
home-made  jacket  tilt  up  in  the  rear.] 

The  girl  went  to  the  sink,  and  began  to  wash 
the  dishes  that  were  piled  up  there.  Her  mother 
came  promptly  out  of  the  pantry,  and  shoved 
her  aside.  "You  wipe  'em,"  she  said;  "I'll 
wash.  There's  a  good  many  this  mornin'." 

The  mother  plunged  her  hands  vigorously 
into  the  water;  the  girl  wiped  the  plates  slowly 
and  dreamily.  "Mother,"  said  she,  "don't  you 
think  it's  too  bad  father's  going  to  build  that 
new  barn,  much  as  we  need  a  decent  house  to 
live  in?" 

Her  mother  scrubbed  a  dish  fiercely.  "  You 
'ain't  found  out  yet  we're  women-folks,  Nanny 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Penn,"  said  she.  "You  'ain't  seen  enough  of 
men-folks  yet  to.  One  of  these  days  you'll  find 
it  out,  an'  then  you'll  know  that  we  know  only 
what  men-folks  think  we  do,  so  far  as  any  use 
of  it  goes,  an'  how  we'd  ought  to  reckon  men- 
folks  in  with  Providence,  an'  not  complain  of 
what  they  do  any  more  than  we  do  of  the 
weather." 

"I  don't  care;  I  don't  believe  George  is  any- 
thing like  that,  anyhow,"  [said  Nanny.  Her 
delicate  face  flushed  pink,  her  lips  pouted  softly, 
as  if  she  were  going  to  cry]. 

"  You  wait  an'  see.  I  guess  George  Eastman 
ain't  no  better  than  other  men.  You  hadn't 
ought  to  judge  father,  though.  He  can't  help 
it,  'cause  he  don't  look  at  things  jest  the  way 
we  do.  An'  we've  been  pretty  comfortable  here, 
after  all.  The  roof  don't  leak — 'ain't  never  but 
once — that's  one  thing.  Father's  kept  it  shin- 
gled right  up." 

"  I  do  wish  we  had  a  parlor." 

"  I  guess  it  won't  hurt  George  Eastman  any 
to  come  to  see  you  in  a  nice  clean  kitchen.  I 
guess  a  good  many  girls  don't  have  as  good  a 
place  as  this.  Nobody's  ever  heard  me  com- 
plain." 

"  I  'ain't  complained  either,  mother." 

"Well,  I  don't  think  you'd  better,  a  good 
father  an'  a  good  home  as  you've  got.  S'pose 
your  father  made  you  go  out  an'  work  for  your 

158 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

livin'?  Lots  of  girls  have  to  that  ain't  no 
stronger  an'  better  able  to  than  you  be." 

Sarah  Penn  washed  the  frying-pan  with  a 
conclusive  air.  She  scrubbed  the  outside  of  it 
as  faithfully  as  the  inside.  She  was  a  masterly 
keeper  of  her  box  of  a  house.  Her  one  living- 
room  never  seemed  to  have  in  it  any  of  the  dust 
which  the  friction  of  life  with  inanimate  matter 
produces.  [She  swept,  and  there  seemed  to  be 
no  dirt  to  go  before  the  broom ;  she  cleaned,  and 
one  could  see  no  difference.  She  was  like  an 
artist  so  perfect  that  he  has  apparently  no  art. 
To-day  she  got  out  a  mixing-bowl  and  a  board, 
and  rolled  some  pies,  and  there  was  no  more 
flour  upon  her  than  upon  her  daughter  who 
was  doing  finer  work.  Nanny  was  to  be  mar- 
ried in  the  fall,  and  she  was  sewing  on  some 
white  cambric  and  embroidery.  She  sewed  in- 
dustriously, while  her  mother  cooked;  her  soft, 
milk-white  hands  and  wrists  showed  whiter  than 
her  delicate  work.] 

"We  must  have  the  stove  moved  out  in  the 
shed  before  long,"  said  Mrs.  Penn.  "  Talk  about 
not  havin'  things,  it's  been  a  real  blessin'  to  be 
able  to  put  a  stove  up  in  that  shed  in  hot  weath- 
er. Father  did  one  good  thing  when  he  fixed 
that  stove-pipe  out  there." 

Sarah  Penn's  face  as  she  rolled  her  pies  had 
that  expression  of  meek  vigor  which  might  have 
characterized  one  of  the  New  Testament  saints. 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

She  was  making  mince -pies.  'Her  husband, 
Adoniram  Penn,  liked  them  better  than  any 
other  kind.  [She  baked  twice  a  week.  Adoni- 
ram often  liked  a  piece  of  pie  between  meals. 
She  hurried  this  morning.  It  had  been  later 
than  usual  when  she  began,  and  she  wanted  to 
have  a  pie  baked  for  dinner.]  However  deep  a 
resentment  she  might  be  forced  to  hold  against 
her  husband,  she  would  never  fail  in  sedulous 
attention  to  his  wants. 

[Nobility  of  character  manifests  itself  at  loop- 
holes when  it  is  not  provided  with  large  doors. 
Sarah  Penn's  showed  itself  to-day  in  flaky 
dishes  of  pastry.]  She  made  the  pies  faithfully, 
while  across  the  table  she  could  see,  when  she 
glanced  up  from  her  work,  the  sight  that  rankled 
in  her  patient  and  steadfast  soul — the  digging 
of  the  cellar  of  the  new  barn  in  the  place  where 
Adoniram  forty  years  ago  had  promised  her 
their  new  house  should  stand. 

The  pies  were  done  for  dinner.  Adoniram 
and  Sammy  were  home  a  few  minutes  after 
twelve  o'clock.  [The  dinner  was  eaten  with 
serious  haste.  There  was  never  much  con- 
versation at  the  table  in  the  Penn  family. 
Adoniram  asked  a  blessing,  and  they  ate  prompt- 
ly, then  rose  up  and  went  about  their  work. 

Sammy  went  back  to  school,  taking  soft  sly 
lopes  out  of  the  yard  like  a  rabbit.  He  wanted 
a  game  of  marbles  before  school,  and  feared  his 
160 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

father  would  give  him  some  chores  to  do.  Ad- 
oniram  hastened  to  the  door  and  called  after 
him,  but  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"  I  don't  see  what  you  let  him  go  for,  mother," 
said  he.  "  I  wanted  him  to  help  me  unload  that 
wood."] 

Adoniram  went  to  work  out  in  the  yard  un- 
loading wood  from  the  wagon.  Sarah  put 
away  the  dinner  dishes,  while  Nanny  took  down 
her  curl-papers  and  changed  her  dress.  She 
was  going  down  to  the  store  to  buy  some  more 
embroidery  and  thread. 

When  Nanny  was  gone,  Mrs.  Penn  went  to 
the  door.  "Father!"  she  called. 

"Well,  what  is  it!" 

"I  want  to  see  you  jest  a  minute,  father." 

"I  can't  leave  this  wood,  nohow.  I've  got 
to  git  it  unloaded  an'  go  for  a  load  of  gravel 
afore  two  o'clock.  Sammy  had  ought  to  helped 
me.  You  hadn't  ought  to  let  him  go  to  school 
so  early." 

"  I  want  to  see  you  jest  a  minute." 

"  I  tell  ye  I  can't,  nohow,  mother." 

"  Father,  you  come  here."  [Sarah  Penn  stood 
in  the  door  like  a  queen;  she  held  her  head  as 
if  it  bore  a  crown ;  there  was  that  patience  which 
makes  authority  royal  in  her  voice.]  Adoniram 
went. 

Mrs.  Penn  led  the  way  into  the  kitchen,  and 
pointed  to  a  chair.  "  Sit  down,  father,"  [said 
161 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

she;]  "I've  got  somethin'  I  want  to  say  to 
you." 

[He  sat  down  heavily;  his  face  was  quite 
stolid,  but  he  looked  at  her  with  restive  eyes.] 
"Well,  what  is  it,  mother?" 

"I  want  to  know  what  you're  buildin'  that 
new  barn  for,  father?" 

"  I  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it." 

"It  can't  be  you  think  you  need  another 
barn?" 

"  I  tell  ye  I  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  say  about  it, 
mother;  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  say  nothin'." 

"  Be  you  goin'  to  buy  more  cows?" 

Adoniram  did  not  reply;  he  shut  his  mouth 
tight. 

"  I  know  you  be,  as  well  as  I  want  to.  Now, 
father,  look  here" — [Sarah  Penn  had  not  sat 
down;  she  stood  before  her  husband  in  the 
humble  fashion  of  a  Scripture  woman — ]  "I'm 
goin'  to  talk  real  plain  to  you;  I  never  have 
sence  I  married  you,  but  I'm  goin'  to  now.  I 
'ain't  never  complained,  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  com- 
plain now,  but  I'm  goin'  to  talk  plain.  You 
see  this  room  here,  father;  you  look  at  it  well. 
You  see  there  ain't  no  carpet  on  the  floor,  an' 
you  see  the  paper  is  all  dirty  an*  droppin'  off 
the  walls.  We  'ain't  had  no  new  paper  on  it 
for  ten  year,  an'  then  I  put  it  on  myself,  an'  it 
didn't  cost  but  ninepence  a  roll.  You  see  this 
room,  father;  it's  all  the  one  I've  had  to  work 
162 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

in  an'  eat  in  an'  sit  in  sence  we  was  mar- 
ried. There  ain't  another  woman  in  the  whole 
town  whose  husband  'ain't  got  half  the  means 
you  have  but  what's  got  better.  It's  all  the 
room  Nanny's  got  to  have  her  company  in;  an' 
there  ain't  one  of  her  mates  but  what's  got 
better,  an'  their  fathers  not  so  able  as  hers  is. 
It's  all  the  room  she'll  have  to  be  married  in. 
What  would  you  have  thought,  father,  if  we 
had  had  our  weddin'  in  a  room  no  better  than 
this?  I  was  married  in  my  mother's  parlor, 
with  a  carpet  on  the  floor,  an'  stuffed  furniture, 
an'  a  mahogany  card-table.  An'  this  is  all  the 
room  my  daughter  will  have  to  be  married  in. 
Look  here,  father!" 

Sarah  Penn  went  across  the  room  as  though 
it  were  a  tragic  stage.  She  flung  open  a  door 
and  disclosed  a  tiny  bedroom,  only  large  enough 
for  a  bed  and  bureau,  with  a  path  between. 
"There,  father,"  said  she — "there's  all  the  room 
I've  had  to  sleep  in  forty  year.  All  my  children 
were  born  there — the  two  that  died,  an'  the  two 
that's  livin'.  I  was  sick  with  a  fever  there." 

She  stepped  to  another  door  and  opened  it.  [It 
led  into  the  small,  ill-lighted  pantry.]  "  Here," 
[said  she,]  "is  all  the  buttery  I've  got — every 
place  I've  got  for  my  dishes,  to  set  away  my 
victuals  in,  an'  to  keep  my  milk-pans  in.  Fa- 
ther, I've  been  takin'  care  of  the  milk  of  six 
cows  in  this  place,  an'  now  you're  goin'  to  build 

163 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

a  new  barn,  an'  keep  more  cows,  an'  give  me 
more  to  do  in  it." 

She  threw  open  another  door.  A  narrow  crook- 
ed flight  of  stairs  wound  upward  from  it.  "  There 
father,"  said  she,  "I  want  you  to  look  at  the 
stairs  that  go  up  to  them  two  unfinished  cham- 
bers that  are  all  the  places  our  son  an'  daughter 
have  had  to  sleep  in  all  their  lives.  There  ain't 
a  prettier  girl  in  town  nor  a  more  ladylike  one 
than  Nanny,  an'  that's  the  place  she  has  to  sleep 
in.  It  ain't  so  good  as  your  horse's  stall;  it 
ain't  so  warm  an'  tight." 

Sarah  Penn  went  back  and  stood  before  her  hus- 
band. "  Now,  father,"  said  she,  "  I  want  to  know 
if  you  think  you're  doin'  right  an'  accordin'  to 
what  you  profess.  Here,  when  we  was  married, 
forty  year  ago,  you  promised  me  faithful  that 
we  should  have  a  new  house  built  in  that  lot 
over  in  the  field  before  the  year  was  out.  You 
said  you  had  money  enough,  an'  you  wouldn't 
ask  me  to  live  in  no  such  place  as  this.  It  is 
forty  year  now,  an'  you've  been  makin'  more 
money,  an'  I've  been  savin'  of  it  for  you  ever 
since,  an'  you  'ain't  built  no  house  yet.  You've 
built  sheds  an'  cow-houses  an'  one  new  barn, 
an'  now  you're  goin'  to  build  another.  Father, 
I  want  to  know  if  you  think  it's  right.  You're 
lodgin'  your  dumb  beasts  better  than  you  are 
your  own  flesh  an'  blood.  I  want  to  know  if 
you  think  it's  right." 

164 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

"I  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  say." 

"You  can't  say  nothin'  without  ownin'  it 
ain't  right,  father.  An'  there's  another  thing 
—I  'ain't  complained;  I've  got  along  forty  year, 
an'  I  s'pose  I  should  forty  more,  if  it  wa'n't 
for  that — if  we  don't  have  another  house,  Nan- 
ny she  can't  live  with  us  after  she's  married. 
She'll  have  to  go  somewheres  else  to  live  away 
from  us,  an'  it  don't  seem  as  if  I  could  have 
it  so,  noways,  father.  She  wa'n't  ever  strong. 
She's  got  considerable  color,  but  there  wa'n't 
never  any  backbone  to  her.  I've  always  took 
the  heft  of  everything  off  her,  an'  she  ain't  fit 
to  keep  house  an'  do  everything  herself.  She'll 
be  all  worn  out  inside  a  year.  Think  of  her 
doin*  all  the  washin'  an'  ironin'  an'  bakin'  with 
them  soft  white  hands  an'  arms,  an'  sweepin'! 
I  can't  have  it  so,  noways,  father." 

[Mrs.  Penn's  face  was  burning;  her  mild  eyes 
gleamed.  She  had  pleaded  her  little  cause  like 
a  Webster;  she  had  ranged  from  severity  to 
pathos;  but  her  opponent  employed  that  ob- 
stinate silence  which  makes  eloquence  futile  with 
mocking  echoes.  Adoniram  arose  clumsily.] 

"Father,  'ain't  you  got  nothin'  to  say?"  said 
Mrs.  Penn. 

"  I've  got  to  go  off  after  that  load  of  gravel.  I 
can't  stan'  here  talkin'  all  day." 

"  Father,  won't  you  think  it  over,  an'  have  a 
house  built  there  instead  of  a  barn?" 

165 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

"I  'ain't  got  nothin'  to  say." 

Adoniram  shuffled  out.  Mrs.  Penn  went  into 
her  bedroom.  When  she  came  out  her  eyes 
were  red.  [She  had  a  roll  of  unbleached  cotton 
cloth.  She  spread  it  out  on  the  kitchen  table, 
and  began  cutting  out  some  shirts  for  her  hus- 
band. The  men  over  in  the  field  had  a  team 
to  help  them  this  afternoon;  she  could  hear 
their  halloos.  She  had  a  scanty  pattern  for 
the  shirts;  she  had  to  plan  and  piece  the  sleeves.] 

Nanny  came  home  with  her  embroidery,  and 
sat  down  with  her  needlework.  [She  had  taken 
down  her  curl-papers,  and  there  was  a  soft  roll 
of  fair  hair  like  an  aureole  over  her  forehead;] 
her  face  was  as  delicately  fine  and  clear  as  porce- 
lain. Suddenly  she  looked  up,  and  the  tender 
red  flamed  all  over  her  face  and  neck.  "  Moth- 
er," [said  she]. 

"What  say?" 

"I've  been  thinking — I  don't  see  how  we're 
goin'  to  have  any — wedding  in  this  room.  I'd 
be  ashamed  to  have  his  folks  come  if  we  didn't 
have  anybody  else." 

"  Mebbe  we  can  have  some  new  paper  before 
then;  I  can  put  it  on.  I  guess  you  won't  have 
no  call  to  be  ashamed  of  your  belongin's." 

"We  might  have  the  wedding  in  the  new 
barn,"  [said  Nanny,  with  gentle  pettishness]. 
"Why,  mother,  what  makes  you  look  so?" 

Mrs.  Penn  had  started,  and  was  staring  at 
166 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

her  with  a  curious  expression.  [She  turned  again 
to  her  work  and  spread  out  a  pattern  carefully 
on  the  cloth.]  "  Nothin',''  said  .she. 

[Presently  Adoniram  clattered  out  of  the  yard 
in  his  two-wheeled  dump-cart,  standing  as  proud- 
ly upright  as  a  Roman  charioteer.  Mrs.  Penn 
opened  the  door  and  stood  there  a  minute  look- 
ing out;  the  halloos  of  the  men  sounded  louder. 

It  seemed  to  her  all  through  the  spring 
months  that  she  heard  nothing  but  the  halloos 
and  the  noises  of  saws  and  hammers.  The 
new  barn  grew  fast.  It  was  a  fine  edifice  for 
this  little  village.  Men  came  on  pleasant  Sun- 
days, in  their  meeting  suits  and  clean  shirt- 
bosoms,  and  stood  around  it  admiringly.  Mrs. 
Penn  did  not  speak  of  it,  and  Adoniram  did  not 
mention  it  to  her,  although  sometimes,  upon  a 
return  from  inspecting  it,  he  bore  himself  with 
injured  dignity. 

"It's  a  strange  thing  how  your  mother  feels 
about  the  new  barn,"  he  said,  confidentially, 
to  Sammy  one  day. 

Sammy  only  grunted  after  an  odd  fashion 
for  a  boy;  he  had  learned  it  from  his  father.] 

The  barn  was  all  completed  ready  for  use  by 
the  third  week  in  July.  Adoniram  had  planned 
to  move  his  stock  in  on  Wednesday;  on  Tuesday 
he  received  a  letter  which  changed  his  plans. 
He  came  in  with  it  early  in  the  morning.  "  Sam- 
my's been  to  the  post-office,"  said  he,  "an*  I've 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

got  a  letter  from  Hiram."  Hiram  was  Mrs. 
Penn's  brother,  who  lived  in  Vermont. 

["Well,"  said  Mrs.  Penn,  "what  does  he  say 
about  the  folks?" 

"  I  guess  they're  all  right.]  He  says  he  thinks 
if  I  come  up-country  right  off  there's  a  chance 
to  buy  jest  the  kind  of  a  horse  I  want."  [He 
stared  reflectively  out  of  the  window  at  the 
new  barn. 

Mrs.  Penn  was  making  pies.  She  went  on 
clapping  the  rolling-pin  into  the  crust,  although 
she  was  very  pale,  and  her  heart  beat  loudly.] 

"I  dun  know  but  what  I'd  better  go,"  [said 
Adoniram].  "  I  hate  to  go  off  jest  now,  right  in 
the  midst  of  hayin',  but  the  ten-acre  lot's  cut, 
an'  I  guess  Rufus  an'  the  others  can  git  along 
without  me  three  or  four  days.  I  can't  get  a 
horse  round  here  to  suit  me,  nohow,  an'  I've  got 
to  have  another  for  all  that  wood-haulin'  in  the 
fall.  I  told  Hiram  to  watch  out,  an'  if  he  got 
wind  of  a  good  horse  to  let  me  know.  I  guess 
I'd  better  go." 

"  I'll  get  out  your  clean  shirt  an'  collar,"  [said 
Mrs.  Penn,  calmly]. 

She  laid  out  Adoniram's  Sunday  suit  and  his 
clean  clothes  on  the  bed  in  the  little  bedroom. 
She  got  his  shaving-water  and  razor  ready. 
At  last  she  buttoned  on  his  collar  and  fastened 
his  black  cravat. 

Adoniram  never  wore  his  collar  and  cravat 
168 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

except  on  extra  occasions.  He  held  his  head 
high,  with  a  rasped  dignity.  [When  he  was  all 
ready,  with  his  coat  and  hat  brushed,  and  a 
lunch  of  pie  and  cheese  in  a  paper  bag,  he  hesi- 
tated on  the  threshold  of  the  door.  He  looked 
at  his  wife,  and  his  manner  was  defiantly  apolo- 
getic.] "//  them  cows  come  to-day,  Sammy  can 
drive  'em  into  the  new  barn,"  [said  he];  "an* 
when  they  bring  the  hay  up,  they  can  pitch  it 
in  there." 

["Well,"  replied  Mrs.  Penn. 

Adoniram  set  his  shaven  face  ahead  and 
started.  When  he  had  cleared  the  door-step, 
he  turned  and  looked  back  with  a  kind  of  ner- 
vous solemnity.]  "  I  shall  be  back  by  Saturday 
if  nothin'  happens,"  [said  he]. 

"Do  be  careful,  father,"  returned  his  wife. 

She  stood  in  the  door  with  Nanny  at  her  el- 
bow and  watched  him  out  of  sight.  Her  eyes 
had  a  strange,  doubtful  expression  in  them; 
her  peaceful  forehead  was  contracted.  She 
went  in,  and  about  her  baking  again.  Nanny 
sat  sewing.  Her  wedding-day  was  drawing 
nearer,  and  she  was  getting  pale  and  thin  with 
her  steady  sewing.  Her  mother  kept  glancing 
at  her. 

"Have  you  got  that  pain  in  your  side  this 
mornin'?"  [she  asked.] 

"A  little." 

Mrs.  Penn's  face,  as  she  worked,  changed, 
169 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

her  perplexed  forehead  smoothed,  her  eyes  were 
steady,  her  lips  firmly  set.  [She  formed  a  maxim 
for  herself,  although  incoherently  with  her  un- 
lettered thoughts.  "Unsolicited  opportunities 
are  the  guide-posts  of  the  Lord  to  the  new  roads 
of  life,"  she  repeated  in  effect,  and  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  her  course  of  action.] 

"  S'posin'  I  had  wrote  to  Hiram,"  she  muttered 
once  when  she  was  in  the  pantry.  "S'posin' 
I  had  wrote  an'  asked  him  if  he  knew  of  any 
horse?  But  I  didn't,  an'  father's  goin'  wa'n't 
none  of  my  doin'.  It  looks  like  a  providence." 
Her  voice  rang  out  quite  loud  at  the  last. 

"What  you  talkin'  about,  mother?"  [called 
Nanny.] 

"NothinV 

Mrs.  Penn  hurried  her  baking  at  eleven 
o'clock  it  was  all  done.  The  load  of  hay  from 
the  west  field  came  slowly  down  the  cart  track, 
and  drew  up  at  the  new  barn.  Mrs.  Penn  ran 
out.  "  Stop !"  she  screamed — "  stop !" 

[The  men  stopped  and  looked;  Sammy  up- 
reared  from  the  top  of  the  load,  and  stared  at 
his  mother]. 

"Stop!"  she  cried  out  again.]  "Don't  you 
put  the  hay  in  that  barn;  put  it  in  the  old  one." 

"Why,  he  said  to  put  it  in  here,"  returned 
one  of  the  haymakers,  wonderingly.     [He  was 
a  young  man,  a  neighbor's  son,  whom  Adoniram 
hired  by  the  year  to  help  on  the  farm.] 
170 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

"Don't  you  put  the  hay  in  the  new  barn; 
there's  room  enough  in  the  old  one,  ain't  there  ?" 
[said  Mrs.  Penn.] 

"  Room  enough,"  [returned  the  hired  man,  in 
his  thick,  rustic  tones].  "  Didn't  need  the  new 
barn,  nohow,  far  as  room's  concerned.  Well,  I 
s'pose  he  changed  his  mind."  He  took  hold 
of  the  horses'  bridles. 

[Mrs.  Penn  went  back  to  the  house.  Soon 
the  kitchen  windows  were  darkened,  and  a 
fragrance  like  warm  honey  came  into  the  room.] 

Nanny  laid  down  her  work.  "  I  thought 
father  wanted  them  to  put  the  hay  into  the 
new  barn?"  [she  said,  wonderingly.] 

"It's  all  right,"  replied  her  mother. 

[Sammy  slid  down  from  the  load  of  hay,  and 
came  in  to  see  if  dinner  was  ready. 

"  I  ain't  goin'  to  get  a  regular  dinner  to-day, 
as  long  as  father's  gone,"  said  his  mother. 
"  I've  let  the  fire  go  out.  You  can  have  some 
bread  an*  milk  an'  pie.  I  thought  we  could  get 
along."  She  set  out  some  bowls  of  milk,  some 
bread,  and  a  pie  on  the  kitchen  table.  "  You'd 
better  eat  your  dinner  now,"  said  she.  "  You 
might  jest  as  well  get  through  with  it.  I  want 
you  to  help  me  afterward."] 

Nanny   and    Sammy   stared   at   each    other. 
There  was  something  strange  in  their  mother's  , 
manner.     Mrs.  Penn  [did  not  eat  anything  her- 
self.   She]  went  into  the  pantry,  and  they  heard 
171 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

her  moving  dishes  while  they  ate.  Presently 
she  came  out  with  a  pile  of  plates.  She  got 
the  clothes-basket  out  of  the  shed,  and  packed 
them  in  it.  Nanny  and  Sammy  watched.  She 
brought  out  cups  and  saucers,  and  put  them  in 
with  the  plates. 

"What  you  goin'  to  do,  mother?"  inquired 
Nanny,  in  a  timid  voice.  [A  sense  of  something 
unusual  made  her  tremble,  as  if  it  were  a  ghost. 
Sammy  rolled  his  eyes  over  his  pie.] 

"You'll  see  what  I'm  goin'  to  do,"  [replied 
Mrs.  Penn].  "  If  you're  through,  Nanny,  I  want 
you  to  go  up-stairs  an'  pack  up  your  things; 
an'  I  want  you,  Sammy,  to  help  me  take  down 
the  bed  in  the  bedroom." 

"Oh,  mother,  what  for?"  gasped  Nanny. 

"You'll  see." 

During  the  next  few  hours  a  feat  was  per- 
formed by  this  simple,  pious  New  England 
mother  which  was  equal  in  its  way  to  Wolfe's 
storming  of  the  Heights  of  Abraham.  It  took 
no  more  genius  and  audacity  of  bravery  for 
Wolfe  to  cheer  his  wondering  soldiers  up  those 
steep  precipices,  under  the  sleeping  eyes  of  the 
enemy,  than  for  Sarah  Penn,  at  the  head  of 
her  children,  to  move  all  their  little  household 
goods  into  the  new  barn  while  her  husband  was 
away. 

[Nanny  and  Sammy  followed  their  mother's 
instructions  without  a  murmur;  indeed,  they 
172 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

were  overawed.  There  is  a  certain  uncanny 
and  superhuman  quality  about  all  such  purely 
original  undertakings  as  their  mother's  was  to 
them.  Nanny  went  back  and  forth  with  her 
light  loads,  and  Sammy  tugged  with  sober 
energy.] 

At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  the  little 
house  in  which  the  Penns  had  lived  for  forty 
years  had  emptied  itself  into  the  new  barn. 

Every  builder  builds  somewhat  for  unknown 
purposes,  and  is  in  a  measure  a  prophet.  The 
architect  of  Adoniram  Penn's  barn,  while  he 
designed  it  for  the  comfort  of  four-footed  ani- 
mals, had  planned  better  than  he  knew  for 
the  comfort  of  humans.  Sarah  Penn  saw  at  a 
glance  its  possibilities.  Those  great  box-stalls, 
with  quilts  hung  before  them,  would  make  better 
bedrooms  than  the  one  she  had  occupied  for 
forty  years,  and  there  was  a  tight  carriage-room. 
The  harness-room,  with  its  chimney  and  shelves, 
would  make  a  kitchen  of  her  dreams.  The 
great  middle  space  would  make  a  parlor,  by- 
and-by,  fit  for  a  palace.  Up-stairs  there  was 
as  much  room  as  down.  With  partitions  and 
windows,  what  a  house  would  there  be!  Sarah 
looked  at  the  row  of  stanchions  before  the  al- 
lotted space  for  cows,  and  reflected  that  she 
would  have  her  front  entry  there. 

At  six  o'clock  the  stove  was  up  in  the  harness- 
room,  the  kettle  was  boiling,  and  the  table  set 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

for  tea.  It  looked  almost  as  homelike  as  the 
abandoned  house  across  the  yard  ever  had 
done.  The  young  hired  man  milked,  and 
Sarah  directed  him  calmly  to  bring  the  milk 
to  the  new  barn.  He  came  gaping,  dropping 
little  blots  of  foam  from  the  brimming  pails 
on  the  grass.  Before  the  next  morning  he  had 
spread  the  story  of  Adoniram  Penn's  wife  mov- 
ing into  the  new  barn  all  over  the  little  village. 
[Men  assembled  in  the  store  and  talked  it  over, 
women  with  shawls  over  their  heads  scuttled 
into  one  another's  houses  before  their  work 
was  done.  Any  deviation  from  the  ordinary 
course  of  life  in  this  quiet  town  was  enough  to 
stop  all  progress  in  it.  Everybody  paused  to 
look  at  the  staid,  independent  figure  on  the 
side  track.  There  was  a  difference  of  opinion 
with  regard  to  her.  Some  held  her  to  be  in- 
sane; some,  of  a  lawless  and  rebellious  spirit.] 

Friday  the  minister  went  to  see  her.  It  was 
in  the  forenoon,  and  she  was  at  the  barn  door 
shelling  pease  for  dinner.  She  looked  up  and 
returned  his  salutation  with  dignity,  then  she 
went  on  with  her  work.  [She  did  not  invite 
him  in.  The  saintly  expression  of  her  face 
remained  fixed,  but  there  was  an  angry  flush 
over  it.] 

The  minister  stood  awkwardly  before  her  and 
talked.  [She  handled  the  pease  as  if  they  were 
bullets.  At  last  she  looked  up,  and  her  eyes 

174 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

showed  the  spirit  that  her  meek  front  had  cov- 
ered for  a  lifetime.] 

"There  ain't  no  use  talkin',  Mr.  Hersey," 
said  she.  "I've  thought  it  all  over  an'  over, 
an'  I  believe  I'm  doin'  what's  right.  I've  made 
it  the  subject  of  prayer,  an'  it's  betwixt  me  an* 
the  Lord  an'  Adoniram.  There  ain't  no  call 
for  nobody  else  to  worry  about  it." 

"Well,  of  course,  if  you  have  brought  it  to 
the  Lord  in  prayer,  and  feel  satisfied  that  you 
are  doing  right,  Mrs.  Penn,"  [said  the  minister, 
helplessly.  His  thin,  gray -bearded  face  was 
pathetic.  He  was  a  sickly  man;  his  youthful 
confidence  had  cooled;  he  had  to  scourge  him- 
self up  to  some  of  his  pastoral  duties  as  relent- 
lessly as  a  Catholic  ascetic,  and  then  he  was 
prostrated  by  the  smart]. 

"  I  think  it's  right  jest  as  much  as  I  think  it 
was  right  for  our  forefathers  to  come  over  from 
the  old  country  'cause  they  didn't  have  what 
belonged  to  'em,"  [said  Mrs.  Penn].  She  arose. 
[The  barn  threshold  might  have  been  Plymouth 
Rock  from  her  bearing.]  "I  don't  doubt  you 
mean  well,  Mr.  Hersey,"  said  she,  "but  there 
are  things  people  hadn't  ought  to  interfere  with. 
I've  been  a  member  of  the  church  for  over  forty 
year.  I've  got  my  own  mind  an'  my  own  feet, 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  think  my  own  thoughts  an' 
go  my  own  ways,  an'  nobody  but  the  Lord  is 
goin'  to  dictate  to  me  unless  I've  a  mind  to 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

have  him.  Won't  you  come  in  an'  set  down? 
How  is  Mis'  Hersey?" 

"She  is  well,  I  thank  you,"  [replied  the  min- 
ister. He  added  some  more  perplexed  apolo- 
getic remarks;  then  he  retreated]. 

He  could  expound  the  intricacies  of  every 
character  study  in  the  Scriptures,  he  was  com- 
petent to  grasp  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  and  all 
historical  innovators,  but  Sarah  Penn  was  be- 
yond him.  [He  could  deal  with  primal  cases, 
but  parallel  ones  worsted  him.  But,  after  all, 
although  it  was  aside  from  his  province,  he 
wondered  more  how  Adoniram  Penn  would 
deal  with  his  wife  than  how  the  Lord  would. 
Everybody  shared  the  wonder.  When  Adon- 
iram's  four  new  cows  arrived,  Sarah  ordered 
three  to  be  put  in  the  old  barn,  the  other  in  the 
house-shed  where  the  cooking-stove  had  stood. 
That  added  to  the  excitement.  It  was  whis- 
pered that  all  four  cows  were  domiciled  in  the 
house.] 

Toward  sunset  on  Saturday,  when  Adoniram 
was  expected  home,  there  was  a  knot  of  men 
in  the  road  near  the  new  barn.  The  hired  man 
had  milked,  but  he  still  hung  around  the  prem- 
ises. Sarah  Penn  had  supper  all  ready.  There 
were  brown  -  bread,  and  baked  beans  and  a 
custard  pie;  it  was  the  supper  that  Adoniram 
loved  on  a  Saturday  night.  She  had  on  a  clean 
calico,  and  she  bore  herself  imperturbably. 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

Nanny  and  Sammy  kept  close  at  her  heels. 
[Their  eyes  were  large,  and  Nanny  was  full  of 
nervous  tremors.  Still  there  was  to  them  more 
pleasant  excitement  than  anything  else.  An 
inborn  confidence  in  their  mother  over  their 
father  asserted  itself.] 

Sammy  looked  out  of  the  harness-room  win- 
dow. "There  he  is,"  he  announced,  in  an 
awed  whisper.  [He  and  Nanny  peeped  around 
the  casing.  Mrs.  Penn  kept  on  about  her  work.] 
The  children  watched  Adoniram  leave  the  new 
horse  standing  in  the  drive  while  he  went  to 
the  house  door.  It  was  fastened.  Then  he 
went  around  to  the  shed.  That  door  was  sel- 
dom locked,  even  when  the  family  was  away. 
[The  thought  how  her  father  would  be  confronted 
by  the  cow  flashed  upon  Nanny.  There  was  a 
hysterical  sob  in  her  throat.]  Adoniram  emerged 
from  the  shed  and  stood  looking  about  in  a  dazed 
fashion.  [His  lips  moved;  he  was  saying  some- 
thing, but  they  could  not  hear  what  it  was. 
The  hired  man  was  peeping  around  a  corner 
of  the  old  barn,  but  nobody  saw  him.] 

Adoniram  took  the  new  horse  by  the  bridle 
and  led  him  across  the  yard  to  the  new  barn. 
[Nanny  and  Sammy  slunk  close  to  their  mother. 
The  barn  doors  rolled  back,  and  there  stood 
Adoniram,  with  the  long  mild  face  of  the  great 
Canadian  farm-horse  looking  over  his  shoulder.] 

Nanny  kept  behind  her  mother,  but  Sammy 
177 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

stepped  suddenly  forward,  and  stood  in  front  of 
her. 

Adoniram  stared  at  the  group.  "  What  on 
airth  you  all  down  here  for?"  said  he.  "What's 
the  matter  over  to  the  house?" 

"We've  come  here  to  live,  father,"  said  Sam- 
my. His  shrill  voice  quavered  out  bravely. 

"What"  [—Adoniram  sniffed]— -" what  is  it 
smells  like  cookin'?"  [said  he.]  He  stepped  for- 
ward and  looked  in  the  open  door  of  the  harness- 
room.  Then  he  turned  to  his  wife.  His  old  brist- 
ling face  was  pale  and  frightened.  "  What  on 
airth  does  this  mean,  mother?"  [he  gasped]. 

"You  come  in  here,  father,"  [said  Sarah. 
She  led  the  way  into  the  harness -room  and 
shut  the  door].  "Now,  father,"  [said  she]  "you 
needn't  be  scared.  I  ain't  crazy.  There  ain't 
nothin'  to  be  upset  over.  But  we've  come  here 
to  live,  an'  we're  goin'  to  live  here.  We've  got 
jest  as  good  a  right  here  as  new  horses  an'  cows. 
The  house  wa'n't  fit  for  us  to  live  in  any  longer, 
an'  I  made  up  my  mind  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  stay 
there.  I've  done  my  duty  by  you  forty  year, 
an'  I'm  goin'  to  do  it  now;  but  I'm  goin'  to  live 
here.  You've  got  to  put  in  some  windows  and 
partitions;  an'  you'll  have  to  buy  some  furniture." 

"Why,  mother!"  [the  old  man  gasped.] 

"You'd  better  take  your  coat  off  an'  get 
washed — there's  the  wash-basin — an*  then  we'll 
have  supper," 

178 


THE    SHORT    STORY 

"Why,  mother!" 

[Sammy  went  past  the  window,  leading  the 
new  horse  to  the  old  barn.  The  old  man  saw 
him  and  shook  his  head  speechlessly.]  He  tried 
to  take  off  his  coat,  but  his  arms  seemed  to  lack 
the  power.  His  wife  helped  him.  She  poured 
some  water  into  the  tin  basin,  and  put  in  a  piece 
of  soap.  She  got  the  comb  and  brush,  and 
smoothed  his  thin  gray  hair  after  he  had  wash- 
ed. Then  she  put  the  beans,  hot  bread,  and  tea 
on  the  table.  Sammy  came  in,  and  the  family 
drew  up.  Adoniram  sat  looking  dazedly  at  his 
plate  and  they  waited. 

"Ain't  you  goin'  to  ask  a  blessin',  father?" 
[said  Sarah.] 

And  the  old  man  bent  his  head  and  mumbled. 

All  through  the  meal  he  stopped  eating  at 
intervals,  and  stared  furtively  at  his  wife;  but 
he  ate  well.  The  home  food  tasted  good  to  him, 
and  his  old  frame  was  too  sturdily  healthy  to 
be  affected  by  his  mind.  But  after  supper  he 
went  out,  and  sat  down  on  the  step  of  the  smaller 
door  at  the  right  of  the  barn,  through  which  he 
had  meant  his  Jerseys  to  pass  in  stately  file, 
but  which  Sarah  designed  for  her  front  house- 
door,  and  he  leaned  his  head  on  his  hands. 

After  the  supper  dishes  were  cleared  away 

and  the  milk-pans  washed,  Sarah  went  out  to 

him.     The  twilight  was  deepening.     There  was 

a  clear  green  glow  in  the  sky.     Before  them 

179 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

stretched  the  smooth  level  of  field;  in  the  dis- 
tance was  a  cluster  of  hay-stacks  like  the  huts 
of  a  village;  the  air  was  very  cool  and  calm  and 
sweet.  The  landscape  might  have  been  an 
ideal  one  of  peace. 

Sarah  bent  over  and  touched  her  husband 
on  one  of  his  thin,  sinewy  shoulders.  "  Father!" 

The  old  man's  shoulders  heaved:  he  was 
weeping. 

"Why,  don't  do  so,  father,"  said  Sarah. 

"I'll  —  put  up  the  —  partitions,  an'  —  every- 
thing you — want,  mother." 

Sarah  put  her  apron  up  to  her  face;  she  was 
overcome  by  her  own  triumph. 

Adoniram  was  like  a  fortress  whose  walls  had 
no  active  resistance,  and  went  down  the  instant 
the  right  besieging  tools  were  used.  "Why, 
mother,"  [he  said,  hoarsely]  "I  hadn't  no  idee 
you  was  so  set  on't  as  all  this  comes  to." 


VII 

EPIC   POETRY 

THE  epic  poem  makes  the  appeal  and 
demand  of  essay,  lyric  poem,  and  short 
story  in  one.  If  you  obey  all  the  laws  you 
have  discovered  in  the  study  of  these  first 
three  forms,  and  use  all  the  power  you  have 
developed,  you  will  be  able  to  read  effectively 
this  cutting  of  "Gareth  and  Lynette."  This 
arrangement  was  made  and  presented  by 
Mrs.  Mary  Everts  Ewing,  formerly  teacher 
of  expression  in  the  University  of  Iowa. 
Mrs.  Ewing's  method  in  cutting  a  story, 
poem,  or  play  is  simple  and  very  effective, 
as  her  results  show.  She  says,  "  First  study 
your  poem,  play,  or  story  as  a  whole.  Con- 
sider it  from  every  standpoint:  its  author, 
its  type,  its  motive,  its  philosophy,  its  struct- 
ure—  in  fact,  know  it.  Second:  Determine 
181 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

your  motive  in  presenting  the  poem,  play, 
or  story.  Third:  Define  your  motive;  what 
phase  of  the  theme  do  you  want  to  show; 
what  aspect  of  the  story  do  you  want  to 
present;  which  thread  of  the  plot  do  you 
wish  to  follow.  Fourth:  Cut  everything 
which  does  not  preserve  the  theme,  phase, 
or  thread  you  have  chosen  to  present.  Fifth: 
If  your  condensation  now  fails  to  come 
within  the  time  allotted  for  its  presentation, 
cut  everything  you  can  without  sacrificing 
your  theme.  Sixth:  If  you  find  you  have 
cut  more  than  is  necessary,  restore  that 
which  seems  most  illuminating  to  your 
theme. 

Because  the  arrangement  of  this  one  of  the 
"Idylls  of  the  King"  has  been  made  for  you, 
do  not  fail  to  heed  the  first  rule  for  pre- 
paring such  a  poem  for  presentation.  Study 
the  complete  poem.  Do  more.  Study  all 
the  "Idylls  of  the  King."  Saturate  yourself 
in  the  atmosphere  of  this  great  epic.  Read 
all  the  fragmentary  poems  which  foreshadow" 
this  masterpiece  of  Tennyson's.  Make  your 
own  cutting  of  "Gareth  and  Lynette,"  and 
182 


EPIC    POETRY 

compare  it  with  this  one.     Study  Tennyson's 
dedication  of  this  epic. 

GARETH   AND   LYNETTE 

"  The  last  tall  son  of  Lot  and  Bellicent, 
And  tallest,  Gareth,  in  a  showerful  spring 
Stared  at  the  spate.     A  slender-shafted  Pine 
Lost  footing,  fell,  and  so  was  whirl 'd  away. 
'  How  he  went  down,'  said  Gareth, '  as  a  false  knight 
Or  evil  king  before  my  lance  if  lance 
Were  mine  to  use — O  senseless  cataract, 
Bearing  all  down  in  thy  precipitancy — 
And  yet  thou  art  but  swollen  with  cold  snows, 
And  mine  is  living  blood:  thou  dost  His  will, 
The  Maker's,  and  not  knowest,  and  I  that  know 
Have  strength  and  wit,  in  my  good  mother's  hall 
Linger  with  vacillating  obedience, 
Prison'd,  and  kept  and  coax'd  and  whistled  to — 
Since  the  good  mother  holds  me  still  a  child — 

Heaven  yield  her  for  it,  but  in  me  put  force 
To  weary  her  ears  with  one  continuous  prayer, 
Until  she  let  me  fly  discaged  to  sweep 
Down  upon  all  things  base,  and  dash  them  dead, 
A  knight  of  Arthur,  working  out  his  will.' 

And  Gareth  went,  and  hovering  round  her  chair 
Ask'd,  '  Mother,  tho'  ye  count  me  still  the  child, 

Man  am  I  grown,  a  man's  work  must  I  do. 
Follow  the  deer?  follow  the  Christ,  the  King, 

183 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Live  pure,  speak  true,  right  wrong,  follow  the 
King—' 

To  whom  the  mother  said,  '  Yet — wilt  thou  leave 
Thine  easeful  biding  here,  and  risk  thine  all, 
Life,  limbs,  for  one  that  is  not  proven  King? 
Stay,  till  the  cloud  that  settles  round  his  birth 
Hath  lifted  but  a  little.     Stay,  sweet  son.' 

And  Gareth  answer'd  quickly, '  Not  an  hour, 
So  that  ye  yield  me — I  will  walk  thro'  fire, 
Mother,  to  gain  it — your  full  leave  to  go.' 
'  Who  walks  thro'  fire  will  hardly  heed  the  smoke. 
Ay,  go  then,  an  ye  must:  only  one  proof, 
Before  thou  ask  the  King  to  make  thee  knight, 
Of  thine  obedience  and  thy  love  to  me, 
Thy  mother, — I  demand.' 

And  Gareth  cried, 

'A  hard  one,  or  a  hundred,  so  I  go. 
Nay — quick!  the  proof  to  prove  me  to  the  quick!' 

But  slowly  spake  the  mother  looking  at  him, 
'  Prince,  thou  shalt  go  disguised  to  Arthur's  hall, 
And  hire  thyself  to  serve  for  meats  and  drinks; 
Nor  shalt  thou  tell  thy  name  to  any  one. 
And  thou  shalt  serve  a  twelvemonth  and  a  day.' 

Silent  awhile  was  Gareth,  then  replied, 
'The  thrall  in  person  may  be  free  in  soul, 
And  I  shall  see  the  jousts.     Thy  son  am  I, 
And  since  thou  art  my  mother,  must  obey. 
I  therefore  yield  me  freely  to  thy  will;' 
184 


EPIC    POETRY 

So  Gareth  all  for  glory  underwent 
The  sooty  yoke  of  kitchen  vassalage; 
Ate  with  young  lads  his  portion  by  the  door, 
And  couch 'd  at  night  with  grimy  kitchen-knaves. 
And  Lancelot  ever  spake  him  pleasantly, 
But  Kay,  the  seneschal,  who  loved  him  not, 
Would  hustle  and  harry  him,  and  labor  him 
Beyond  his  comrade  of  the  hearth,  and  set 
To  turn  the  broach,  draw  water,  or  hew  wood, 
Or  grosser  tasks;  and  Gareth  bow'd  himself 
With  all  obedience  to  the  King,  and  wrought 
All  kind  of  service  with  a  noble  ease 
That  graced  the  lowliest  act  in  doing  it. 

So  for  a  month  he  wrought  among  the  thralls; 
But  in  the  weeks  that  follow'd,  the  good  Queen, 
Repentant  of  the  word  she  made  him  swear, 
And  saddening  in  her  childless  castle,  sent 
Arms  for  her  son,  and  loosed  him  from  his  vow. 
Shame  never  made  girl  redder  than  Gareth  joy. 
He  laugh'd;  he  sprang.    Whereon  he  sought 
The  King  alone,  and  found,  and  told  him  all. 
'  Make  me  thy  knight — in  secret!  let  my  name 
Be  hidd'n,  and  give  me  the  first  quest,  I  spring 
Like  flame  from  ashes.' 

And  the  King — 

'Make  thee  my  knight  in  secret?  yea,  but  he, 
Our  noblest  brother,  and  our  truest  man, 
And  one  with  me  in  all,  he  needs  must  know/ 

'  Let  Lancelot  know,  my  King,  let  Lancelot  know, 
Thy  noblest  and  thy  truest!' 

185 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

So  with  a  kindly  hand  on  Gareth's  arm 

Smiled  the  great  King,  and  half -unwillingly, 

Loving  his  lusty  youthhood,  yielded  to  him. 

Then,  after  summoning  Lancelot  privily, 

'  I  have  given  him  the  first  quest:  he  is  not  proven. 

Look  therefore  when  he  calls  for  this  in  hall, 

Thou  get  to  horse  and  follow  him  far  away. 

Cover  the  lions  on  thy  shield,  and  see, 

Far  as  thou  mayest,  he  be  nor  ta'en  nor  slain.' 

Then  that  same  day  there  past  into  the  hall 
A  damsel  of  high  lineage,  and  cried, 
'O  King,  for  thou  hast  driven  the  foe  without, 
See  to  the  foe  within!     Why  sit  ye  there? 
Rest  would  I  not,  Sir  King,  an  I  were  king, 
Till  ev'n  the  lonest  hold  were  all  as  free 
From  cursed  bloodshed,  as  thine  altar-cloth." 

'Comfort  thyself,'  said  Arthur,  'I  nor  mine 
Rest :  so  my  knighthood  keep  the  vows  they  swore. 
The  wastest  moorland  of  our  realm  shall  be 
Safe,  damsel,  as  the  centre  of  this  hall. 
What  is  thy  name?  thy  need?' 

'Lynette  my  name;  noble;  my  need,  a  knight 
To  combat  for  my  sister,  Lyonors, 
A  lady  of  high  lineage,  of  great  lands, 
And  comely,  yea,  and  comelier  than  myself. 
She  lives  in  Castle  Perilous:  a  river 
Runs  in  three  loops  about  her  living-place; 
And  o'er  it  are  three  passings,  and  three  knights 
Defend  the  passings,  brethren,  and  a  fourth, 
And  of  that  four  the  mightiest,  holds  ker  stay'd 
1 86 


EPIC    POETRY 

In  her  own  castle,  and  so  besieges  her 

To  break  her  will,  and  make  her  wed  with  him: 

And  three  of  these 

Proud  in  their  fantasy  call  themselves  the  Day : 
Morning-Star,  and  Noon-Sun,  and  Evening-Star. 
The  fourth,  who  alway  rideth  arm'd  in  black, 
A  huge  man-beast  of  boundless  savagery, 
He  names  himself  the  Night  and  oftener  Death. 
And  therefore  am  I  come  for  Lancelot.' 

Hereat  Sir  Gareth  call'd  from  where  he  rose, ' 
A  head  with  kindling  eyes  above  the  throng, 
'A  boon,  Sir  King — this  quest!' 

And  Arthur  glancing  at  him, 

Brought  down  a  momentary  brow.     '  Rough,  sud- 
den, 

And  pardonable,  worthy  to  be  knight — 
Go  therefore,'  and  all  hearers  were  amazed. 

But    on   the   damsel's    forehead   shame,    pride, 

wrath, 

Slew  the  May- white:  she  lifted  either  arm, 
'Fie  on  thee,  King!  I  ask'd  for  thy  chief  knight, 
And  thou  hast  given  me  but  a  kitchen-knave.' 
Then  ere  a  man  in  hall  could  stay  her,  turn'd, 
Fled  down  the  lane  of  access  to  the  King, 
Took  horse,  descended  the  slope  street,  and  past 
The  weird  white  gate,  and  paused  without,  beside 
The  field  of  tourney,  murmuring  'kitchen-knave.' 

Whereat  Sir  Gareth  donn'd  the  helm,  and  took 

the  shield 

And  mounted  horse  and  graspt  a  spear,  of  grain 
187 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Storm-strengthen 'd  on  a  windy  site,  and  tipt 
With  trenchant  steel,  around  him  slowly  prest 
The  people,  and  from  out  of  kitchen  came 
The  thralls  in  throng,  and  seeing  who  had  work'd 
Lustier  than  any,  and  whom  they  could  but  love, 
Mounted  in  arms,  threw  up  their  caps  and  cried, 
'God  bless  the  King,  and  all  his  fellowship!' 
And  on  thro'  lanes  of  shouting  Gareth  rode 
Down  the  slope  street,  and  past  without  the  gate. 

But  by  the  field  of  tourney  lingering  yet 
Mutter'd  the  damsel,  'Wherefore  did  the  King 
Scorn  me? — O  sweet  heaven!     O  fie  upon  him — 
His  kitchen-knave.' 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  drew 
Shining  in  arms,  'Damsel,  the  quest  is  mine. 
Lead,  and  I  follow.'     She  thereat,  'Hence! 
Avoid,  thou  smellest  all  of  kitchen-grease. 
And  look  who  comes  behind,'  for  there  was  Kay. 
'  Knowest  thou  not  me  ?  thy  master?     I  am  Kay. 
We  lack  thee  by  the  hearth.' 

And  Gareth  to  him, 

'Master  no  more!  too  well  I  know  thee,  ay — 
The  most  ungentle  knight  in  Arthur's  hall.' 
'  Have  at  thee  then,'  said  Kay:  they  shock'd,  and 

Kay 

Fell  shoulder-slipt,  and  Gareth  cried  again, 
'Lead,  and  I  follow,'  and  fast  away  she  fled. 

So  till  the  dusk  that  follow'd  evensong 
Rode  on  the  two,  reviler  and  reviled; 
188 


EPIC    POETRY 

Then  after  one  long  slope  was  mounted,  saw, 
A  gloomy-gladed  hollow;  and  shouts 
Ascended,  and  there  brake  a  servingman 
Flying  from  out  of  the  black  wood,  and  crying, 
'They  have  bound  my  lord  to  cast  him  in  the 

mere.' 

Then  Gareth,  '  Bound  am  I  to  right  the  wrong'd, 
But  straitlier  bound  am  I  to  bide  with  thee.' 
And  when  the  damsel  spake  contemptuously, 
'  Lead  and  I  follow,'  Gareth  cried  again, 
'Follow,  I  lead!'  so  down  among  the  pines 
He  plunged;  and  there,  blackshadow'd  nigh  the 

mere, 

Saw  six  tall  men  haling  a  seventh  along, 
A  stone  about  his  neck  to  drown  him  in  it. 
Three  with  good  blows  he  quieted,  but  three 
Fled  thro'  the  pines ;  and  Gareth  loosed  the  stone 
From  off  his  neck,  then  in  the  mere  beside 
Tumbled  it;  oilily  bubbled  up  the  mere. 
Last,  Gareth  loosed  his  bonds  and  on  free  feet 
Set  him,  a  stalwart  Baron,  Arthur's  friend. 

So  when,  next  morn,  the  lord  whose  life  he  saved 
Had,  some  brief  space,  convey'd  them  on  their 

way 

And  left  them  with  God-speed,  Sir  Gareth  spake, 
'Lead  and  I  follow.'     Haughtily  she  replied, 

'  I  fly  no  more:  I  allow  thee  for  an  hour. 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  will  overthrow 
And  slay  thee;  then  will  I  to  court  again, 
And  shame  the  King  for  only  yielding  me 
My  champion  from  the  ashes  of  his  hearth.' 
13  189 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd  courteously, 
'Say  thou  thy  say,  and  I  will  do  my  deed. 

Then  to  the  shore  of  one  of  those  long  loops 
Wherethro'  the  serpent  river  coil'd,  they  came. 
And  therebefore  the  lawless  warrior  paced 
Unarm'd,  and  calling,  'Damsel,  is  this  he, 
The  champion  ve  have  brought  from  Arthur's 

hall, 

For  whom  we  let  thee  pass  ?'  '  Nay,  nay,'  she  said, 
'Sir  Morning-Star.     The  King  in  utter  scorn 
Of  thee  and  thy  much  folly  hath  sent  thee  here 
His  kitchen-knave:  and  look  thou  to  thyself: 
See  that  he  fall  not  on  thee  suddenly, 
And  slay  thee  unarm'd:  he  is  not  knight  but 

knave.' 

And  Gareth  silent  gazed  upon  the  knight, 
Who  stood  a  moment,  ere  his  horse  was  brought. 

Then  she   that  watch'd   him,  'Wherefore   stare 

ye  so? 

Thou  shakest  in  thy  fear:  there  yet  is  time: 
Flee  down  the  valley  before  he  get  to  horse. 
Who  will  cry  shame?     Thou  art  not  knight  but 
knave.' 

Said  Gareth,  '  Damsel,  whether  knave  or  knight, 
Far  liefer  had  I  fight  a  score  of  times 
Than  hear  thee  so  missay  me  and  revile. 
Fair  words  were  best  for  him  who  fights  for  thee ; 
But  truly  foul  are  better,  for  they  send 
That  strength  of  anger  thro'  mine  arms,  I  know 
That  I  shall  overthrow  him.' 
190 


EPIC    POETRY 

And  he  that  bore 
The  star,   being  mounted,   cried  from  o'er  the 

bridge, 

'A  kitchen-knave,  and  sent  in  scorn  of  me! 
Such  fight  not  I,  but  answer  scorn  with  scorn. 
Avoid:  for  it  beseemeth  not  a  knave 
To  ride  with  such  a  lady.' 

'Dog,  thou  liest. 

I  spring  from  loftier  lineage  than  thine  own.' 
He  spake;  and  all  at  fiery  speed  the  two 
Shock'd  on  the  central  bridge. 

And  either  knight  at  once 

Fell,  as  if  dead;  but  quickly  rose  and  drew, 
And  Gareth  lash'd  so  fiercely  with  his  brand 
He  drave  his  enemy  backward  down  the  bridge, 
The  damsel  crying,  'Well -stricken  kitchen-knave!' 
Till  Gareth's  shield  was  cloven;  but  one  stroke 
Laid  him  that  clove  it  grovelling  on  the  ground. 

Then  cried  the  fall'n,  'Take  not  my  life:  I 

yield.' 

And  Gareth,  'So  this  damsel  ask  it  of  me 
Good — I  accord  it  easily  as  a  grace. 

Thy  life  is  thine  at  her  command.     Arise 
And  quickly  pass  to  Arthur's  hall,  and  say 
His   kitchen-knave   hath   sent   thee.     See    thou 

crave 

His  pardon  for  thy  breaking  of  his  laws. 
Myself,  when  I  return,  will  plead  for  thee. 
Thy  shield  is  mine — farewell;  and,  damsel,  thou, 
Lead,  and  I  follow.' 

191 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

And  fast  away  she  fled. 

Then  when  he  came  upon  her,  spake,  '  Methought, 
Knave,  when  I  watch'd  thee  striking  on  the  bridge 
The  savor  of  thy  kitchen  came  upon  me 
A  little  faintlier:  but  the  wind  hath  changed: 
I  scent  it  twentyfold.'     And  then  she  sang, 
"O  morning-star  that  smilest  in  the  blue, 
O  star,  my  morning  dream  hath  proven  true, 
Smile  sweetly,  thou!  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me." 

'But  thou  begone,  take  counsel,  and  away, 
For  hard  by  here  is  one  that  guards  a  ford — 
The  second  brother  in  their  fool's  parable — 
Will  pay  thee  all  thy  wages,  and  to  boot. 
Care  not  for  shame:  thou  art  not  knight  but  knave.' 
To  whom  Sir  Gareth  answer'd,  laughingly, 
'  The  knave  that  doth  thee  service  as  full  knight 
Is  all  as  good,  meseems,  as  any  knight 
Toward  thy  sister's  freeing/ 

'Ay,  Sir  Knave! 
Ay,  ay,'  she  said,  'but  thou  shalt  meet  thy  match.' 

So  when  they  touch 'd  the  second  river-loop, 
Huge  on  a  huge  red  horse,  and  all  in  mail 
Burnish'd  to  blinding,  shown  the  Noonday  Sun, 
Whom  Gareth  met  midstream :  no  room  was  there 
For  lance  or  tourney-skill :  four  strokes  they  struck 
With  sword,  and  these  were  mighty;  the  new  knight 
Had  fear  he  might  be  shamed;  but  as  the  Sun 
Heaved  up  a  ponderous  arm  to  strike  the  fifth, 
The  hoof  of  his  horse  slipt  in  the  stream,  the  stream 
Descended,  and  the  Sun  was  wash'd  away. 
192 


EPIC    POETRY 

Then  Gareth  laid  his  lance  athwart  the  ford; 
So  drew  him  home;  but  he  that  fought  no  more, 
As  being  all  bone-batter'd  on  the  rock, 
Yielded;  and  Gareth  sent  him  to  the  King. 
'Myself  when  I  return  will  plead  for  thee. 
Lead,  and  I  follow.'     Quietly  she  led. 
'Hath  not  the  good  wind,  damsel,  changed  again?' 
'Nay,  not  a  point:  nor  art  thou  victor  here. 
There  lies  a  ridge  of  slate  across  the  ford; 
His  horse  thereon  stumbled — and  once  again  she 
sang: 

'"  O  birds,  that  warble  to  the  morning  sky, 
O  birds  that  warble  as  the  day  goes  by, 
Sing  sweetly;  twice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me." 


'  There  stands  the  third  fool  of  their  allegory/ 
For  there  beyond  a  bridge  of  treble  bow, 
The  knight  that  named  him  Star  of  Evening  stood. 

And    Gareth,   'Wherefore    waits    the    madman 

there 

Naked  in  open  dayshine?'     'Nay,'  she  cried, 
'Not  naked,  only  wrapt  in  harden'd  skins.' 

Then  that  other  blew 
A  hard  and  deadly  note  upon  the  horn. 

'Approach  and  arm  me!' 

And  forthwith 

They  madly  hurl'd  together  on  the  bridge; 
And  Gareth  overthrew  him,  lighted,  drew, 


193 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

But  up  like  fire  he  started:  and  as  oft 

As  Gareth  brought  him  grovelling  on  his  knees, 

So  many  a  time  he  vaulted  up  again; 

Till  Gareth  panted  hard,  and  his  great  heart, 

Foredooming  all  his  trouble  was  in  vain, 

Labor'd  within  him,  for  he  seem'd  as  one 

That  all  in  later,  sadder  age  begins 

To  war  against  ill  uses  of  a  life, 

But  these  from  all  his  life  arise,  and  cry, 

'Thou  hast  made  us  lords,  and  canst  not  put  us 

down!' 

He  half  despairs;  so  Gareth  seem'd  to  strike 
Vainly,  the  damsel  clamoring  all  the  while, 
'  Well  done,  knave  -  knight,  well  -  stricken,  O  good 

knight-knave — 

Shame  me  not,  shame  me  not.     I  have  prophe- 
sied— 

Strike,  thou  art  worthy  of  the  Table  Round — 
His  arms  are  old,  he  trusts  the  harden'd  skin — 
Strike — strike — the  wind  will  never  change  again.' 

And  Gareth  hearing  ever  stronglier  smote 
And  hew'd  great  pieces  of  his  armor  off  him, 
But  lash'd  in  vain  against  the  harden'd  skin, 
And  could  not  wholly  bring  him  under,  more 
Than  loud  South  westerns,  rolling  ridge  on  ridge, 
The  buoy  that  rides  at  sea,  and  dips  and  springs 
Forever;  till  at  length  Sir  Gareth's  brand 
Clash 'd  his,  and  brake  it  utterly  to  the  hilt. 
'  I  have  thee  now ' ;  but  forth  that  other  sprang, 
And,  all  unknightlike,  writhed  his  wiry  arms 
Around  him,  till  he  felt,  despite  his  mail, 
Strangled,  but  straining  ev'n  his  uttermost 
194 


EPIC    POETRY 

Cast,  and  so  hurl'd  him  headlong  o'er  the  bridge 
Down  to  the  river,  sink  or  swim,  and  cried, 
'Lead,  and  I  follow/ 

But  the  damsel  said, 
'  I  lead  no  longer ;  ride  thou  at  my  side ; 
Thou  art  the  kingliest  of  all  kitchen-knaves. 

f"O  trefoil,  sparkling  on  the  rainy  plain 
O  rainbow  with  three  colors  after  rain, 
Shine  sweetly:  thrice  my  love  hath  smiled  on  me." 

'Sir — and,    good    faith,  I    fain    had    added  — 

Knight, 

But  that  I  heard  thee  call  thyself  a  knave, — 
Shamed  am  I  that  I  so  rebuked,  reviled, 
Missaid  thee;  noble  I  am;  and  thought  the  King 
Scorn 'd  me  and  mine;  and  now  thy  pardon,  friend.' 


'Damsel,'  he  said,  'ye  be  not  all  to  blame, 
Saving  that  ye  mistrusted  our  good  King 
Would  handle  scorn,  or  yield  thee,  asking,  one 
Not  fit  to  cope  thy  quest 

.     .     Good  sooth!     I  hold 

He  scarce  is  knight  who  lets 

His  heart  be  stirr'd  with  any  foolish  heat 

At  any  gentle  damsel's  waywardness. 

Shamed  ?  care  not !  thy  foul  sayings  fought  for  me 

And  seeing  now  thy  words  are  fair,  methinks, 

There  rides  no  knight,  not  Lancelot,  his  great  self, 

Hath  force  to  quell  me.'     .     , 

'Look, 

Who  comes  behind?' 

195 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

For  one — delay'd  at  first 
Thro'  helping  back  the  dislocated  Kay 
Sir  Lancelot,  having  swum  the  river-loops — 
His  blue  shield-lions  cover'd — softly  drew 
Behind  the  twain,  and  when  he  saw  the  star 
Gleam,  on  Sir  Gareth's  turning  to  him,  cried, 
'Stay,  felon  knight,  I  avenge  me  for  my  friend.' 

And  Gareth  crying  prick'd  against  the  cry; 
But  when  they  closed — in  a  moment — at  one  touch 
Of  that  skill 'd  spear,  the  wonder  of  the  world — 
Went  sliding  down  so  easily,  and  fell, 
That  when  he  found  the  grass  within  his  hands 
He  laugh'd;  the  laughter  jarr'd  upon  Lynette: 
Harshly  she  ask'd  him,  '  Shamed  and  overthrown, 
And  tumbled  back  into  the  kitchen-knave, 
Why  laugh  ye ?  that  ye  blew  your  boast  in  vain?' 
'Nay,  noble  damsel,  but  that  I,  the  son 
Of  old  King  Lot  and  good  Queen  Bellicent, 
And  victor  of  the  bridges  and  the  ford, 
And  knight  of  Arthur,  here  lie  thrown  by  whom 
I  know  not,  all  thro'  mere  unhappiness — 
Device  and  sorcery  and  unhappiness — 
Out,  sword;   we  are  thrown!'     And  Lancelot  an- 

swer'd,  '  Prince, 

'O  Gareth — thro'  the  mere  unhappiness 
Of  one  who  came  to  help  thee,  not  to  harm, 
Lancelot,  and  all  as  glad  to  find  thee  whole, 
As  on  the  day  when  Arthur  knighted  him. 

'  O  damsel,  be  ye  wise 

To  call  him  shamed,  who  is  but  overthrown? 
thrown  have  I  been,  nor  once,  but  many  a  time. 

196 


EPIC    POETRY 

Victor  from  vanquish'd  issues  at  the  last, 
And  overthrower  from  being  overthrown. 
Well  hast  thou  done;  for  all  the  stream  is  freed, 
And  thou  hast  wreak'd  his  justice  on  his  foes, 
And  when  reviled,  hast  answer'd  graciously, 
And   makest    merry,    when   overthrown.      Prince, 

Knight, 
Hail,  Knight  and  Prince,  and  of  our  Table  Round!' 

And  then  when  turning  to  Lynette  he  told 
The  tale  of  Gareth,  petulantly  she  said, 
'Ay  well — ay  well — for  worse  than  being  fool'd 
Of  others,  is  to  fool  one's  self.     A  cave, 
Sir  Lancelot,  is  hard  by,  with  meats  and  drinks 
And  forage  for  the  horse,  and  flint  for  fire. 
But  all  about  it  flies  a  honeysuckle. 
Seek,   till  we  find.'     And  when  they  sought  and 

found, 

Sir  Gareth  drank  and  ate,  and  all  his  life 
Past  into  sleep;  on  whom  the  maiden  gazed. 
1  Sound  sleep  be  thine !  sound  cause  to  sleep  hast 

thou. 

0  Lancelot,  Lancelot' — and  she  clapt  her  hands — 

1  Full  merry  am  I  to  find  my  goodly  knave 

Is  knight  and  noble.     See  now,  sworn  have  I, 
Else  yon  black  felon  had  not  let  me  pass, 
To  bring  thee  back  to  do  the  battle  with  him. 
Thus  an  thou  goest,  he  will  fight  thee  first; 
Who  doubts  thee  victor?  so  will  my  knight-knave 
Miss  the  full  flower  of  this  accomplishment.' 

Said  Lancelot,  '  Perad venture  he,  ye  name, 
May  know  my  shield.     Let  Gareth,  an  he  will, 
197 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Change  his  for  mine,  and  take  my  charger,  fresh, 
Not  to  be  spurr'd,  loving  the  battle  as  well 
As  he  that  rides  him.'     'Lancelot-like,'  she  said, 
'Courteous  in  this,  Lord  Lancelot,  as  in  all.' 

And    Gareth,   wakening,    fiercely    clutch'd    the 

shield; 
'  Ramp  ye  lance  -  splintering  lions,   on  whom  all 

spears 

Are  rotten  sticks!  ye  seem  agape  to  roar! 
Yea,  ramp  and  roar  at  leaving  of  your  lord! — 
Care  not,  good  beasts,  so  well  I  care  for  you. 
O  noble  Lancelot,  from  my  hold  on  these 
Streams  virtue — fire — thro'  one  that  will  not  shame 
Even  the  shadow  of  Lancelot  under  shield. 
Hence:  let  us  go.' 

Silent  the  silent  field 

They  traversed 

Suddenly  she  that  rode  upon  his  left 

Clung  to  the  shield  that  Lancelot  lent  him,  crying, 

'Yield,  yield  him  this  again:  'tis  he  must  fight: 

Miracles  ye  cannot:  here  is  glory  enow 

In  having  flung  the  three:  I  see  thee  maim'd, 

Mangled:  I  swear  thou  canst  not  fling  the  fourth.' 

Then  for  a  space,  and  under  cloud  that  grew 
To  thunder-gloom  palling  all  stars,  they  rode 
In  converse  till  she  made  her  palfrey  halt, 
Lifted  an  arm,  and  softly  whisper'd,  'There.' 
And  all  the  three  were  silent,  seeing,  pitch'd 
Beside  the  Castle  Perilous  on  flat  field, 
A  huge  pavilion  like  a  mountain  peak 
198 


EPIC    POETRY 

Sunder  the  glooming  crimson  on  the  marge, 
Black,  with  black  banner,  and  a  long  black  horn 
Beside  it  hanging;  which  Sir  Gareth  graspt, 
And  so,  before  the  two  could  hinder  him, 
Sent  all  his  heart  and  breath  thro'  all  the  horn. 
Echo'd  the  wall;  a  light  twinkled;  anon 
Came  lights  and  lights,  and  once  again  he  blew; 
Whereon  were  hollow  tramplings  up  and  down 
And  muffled  voices  heard,  and  shadows  pasc; 
Till  high  above  him,  circled  with  her  maids, 
The  Lady  Lyonors  at  a  window  stood, 
Beautiful  among  lights,  and  waving  to  him 
White  hands,  and  courtesy;  but  when  the  Prince 
Three  times  had  blown — after  long  hush — at  last — 
The  huge  pavilion  slowly  yielded  up, 
Thro'  those  black  foldings,  that  which  housed  there- 
in. 

High  on  a  nightblack  horse,  in  nightblack  arms, 
With  white  breast-bone,  and  barren  ribs  of  Death, 
And  crown'd  with  fleshless  laughter  —  some  ten 

steps — 

In  the  half  light — thro'  the  dim  dawn — advanced 
The  monster,  and  then  paused,  and  spake  no  word. 

But  Gareth  spake  and  all  indignantly. 
'  Fool,  for  thou  hast,  men  say,  the  strength  of  ten, 
Canst  thou  not  trust  the  limbs  thy  God  hath  given, 
But  must,  to  make  the  terror  of  thee  more, 
Trick  thyself  out  in  ghastly  imageries 
Of  that  which  Life  hath  done  with,  and  the  clod, 
Less  dull  than  thou,  will  hide  with  mantling  flowers 
As  if  for  pity?'     But  he  spake  no  word; 
Which  set  the  horror  higher:  a  maiden  swoon'd; 
199 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

The  Lady  Lyonors  wrung  her  hands  and  wept, 
As  doom'd  to  be  the  bride  of  Night  and  Death; 
Sir  Gareth's  head  prickled  beneath  his  helm; 
And  ev'n  Sir  Lancelot  thro'  his  warm  blood  felt 
Ice  strike,  and  all  that  mark'd  him  were  aghast. 

At  once  Sir  Lancelot's  charger  fiercely  neigh'd — 
At  once  the  black  horse  bounded  forward  with  him. 
Then  those  that  did  not  blink  the  terror,  saw 
That  Death  was  cast  to  ground,  and  slowly  rose. 
But  with  one  stroke  Sir  Gareth  split  the  skull. 
Half  fell  to  right  and  half  to  left  and  lay. 
Then  with  a  stronger  buffet  he  clove  the  helm 
As  thoroughly  as  the  skull;  and  out  from  this 
Issued  the  bright  face  of  a  blooming  boy 
Fresh  as  a  flower  new-born,  and  crying,  'Knight, 
Slay  me  not:  my  three  brethren  bade  me  do  it, 
To  make  a  horror  all  about  the  house, 
And  stay  the  world  from  Lady  Lyonors. 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  would  be  past.' 
Answer'd  Sir  Gareth  graciously  to  one 
Not  many  a  moon  his  younger,  '  My  fair  child, 
What  madness  made  thee  challenge  the  chief  knight 
Of  Arthur's  hall  ?'     '  Fair  Sir,  they  bade  me  do  it. 
They  hate  the    King,   and    Lancelot,   the    King's 

friend, 

They  hoped  to  slay  him  somewhere  on  the  stream, 
They  never  dream'd  the  passes  could  be  past.' 

Then    sprang    the    happier    day   from   under- 
ground ; 

And  Lady  Lyonors  and  her  house,  with  dance 
And  revel  and  song,  made  merry  over  Death, 
200 


EPIC    POETRY 

As  being  after  all  their  foolish  fears 

And.  horrors  only  proven  a  blooming  boy. 

So  large  mirth  lived  and  Gareth  won  the  quest. 

And  he  that  told  the  tale  in  older  times 
Says  that  Sir  Gareth  wedded  Lyonors, 
But  he  that  told  it  later  says  Lynette." 

— ALFRED  TENNYSON. 


VIII 

THE  DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE  AND  THE  PLAY 

OUR  study  in  the  vocal  interpretation  of 
literary  forms  finally  reaches  the  play. 
The  natural  approach  to  the  play  is  through 
the  dramatic  monologue.  Indeed  the  play, 
when  presented  by  one  person,  becomes 
a  dramatic  monologue.  The  dictionary  in 
defining  the  monologue  authorizes  three 
forms:  (i)  when  the  actor  tells  a  continuous 
story  in  which  he  is  the  chief  character,  re- 
ferring to  the  others  as  absent;  (2)  when 
he  assumes  the  voice  or  manner  of  several 
characters  successively;  (3)  more  recently, 
when  he  implies  that  the  others  are  present, 
leading  the  audience  to  imagine  what  they 
say  by  his  replies.  Browning  created  this 
more  recent  form,  which  is  the  most  vital  of 
the  three.  I  have  chosen  for  your  study  of 
202 


DRAMATIC   MONOLOGUE   AND  PLAY 

the  monologue  examples  from  Browning  alone. 
To  interpret  effectively  any  one  of  the  Brown- 
ing monologues  will  call  into  play  every  ele- 
ment of  power  in  voice  and  expression  which 
you  have  gained  in  your  study  of  previous 
forms.  You  must  think  vividly,  feel  intelli^ 
gently;  realize  and  suggest  an  atmosphere; 
sustain  a  situation ;  and  keep  the  beauty  of  the 
poetic  form.  And  you  must  do  all  this  in  the 
per  son  of  another.  The  new  demand  which  the  .  (Z 
monologue  makes  is  impersonation .  Let  us  see 
just  what  we  mean  by  impersonation.  It  is  the 
art  of  identifying  one's  self  with  the  charac- 
ter to  be  portrayed.  It  is  the  art  of  losing 
one's  self  in  the  character  and  the  situation 
the  dramatist  has  created.  This  means  that 
the  spirit  of  the  character  must  take  posses- 
sion of  the  impersonator,  and  inform  his 
every  thought  and  feeling  and  so  his  every  mo- 
tion and  tone.  Remember,  it  is  the  spirit  of 
the  character  that  must  determine  the  nature 
of  the  tone  and  gesture.  The  great  danger 
in  entering  upon  the  study  of  impersonation 
lies  in  emphasizing  the  outward  manifesta- 
tion instead  of  the  inward  spirit  of  the  char- 
203 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

acter  to  be  portrayed.  If  you  really  sense 
the  soul,  mind,  heart  quality  of  the  character 
you  are  to  present,  and  have  made  your  voice 
and  body  free  agents  for  the  manifestation  of 
those  qualities,  your  impersonation  will  be 
convincing.  If  the  spirit  of  the  Patriot 
or  Andrea  del  Sarto  or  Fra  Lippo  Lippi 
or  Pompilia  or  Caponsacchi  or  Guido  ob- 
sesses you,  the  outward  manifestation  will 
take  care  of  itself — always  provided  your 
instruments  are  responsive.  Don't  begin 
with  the  outward  manifestation.  Don't  say 
I  think  this  man  would  frown  a  great  deal, 
or  fold  his  arms  over  his  breast,  or  use  an 
eye-glass,  or  strut,  or  stoop,  or  do  any  one  of 
a  hundred  things  which,  if  repeated  a  half- 
dozen  times  during  an  impersonation,  may 
become  a  mannerism  and  get  between  the 
audience  and  the  spirit  of  the  character. 
When  you  are  studying  a  character  for  the 
purpose  of  impersonation  determine  first 
to  what  type  it  belongs.  Then  study  that 
type,  wherever  you  are.  Daily  life  becomes 
\Your  teacher  and  studio.  When  you  enter 
upon  this  art  there  are  no  longer  dull  mo- 
204 


DRAMATIC   MONOLOGUE   AND   PLAY 

ments  in  railroad  stations  or  trains,  in  shops 
or  in  the  social  whirl.  Everywhere  and  al- 
ways you  are  the  student  seeking  to  know 
and  understand  types  of  people  better,  that 
you  may  use  your  knowledge  in  presenting 
to  an  audience  an  individual.  When  you 
have  caught  the  spirit  of  the  individual  you 
must  realize  the  situation  out  of  which  this 
particular  individual  speaks. 

Let  us  make  a  special  study  of  the  "Tale" 
(Browning's  epilogue  to  "The  Two  Poets  of 
Croisic").  It  is  perhaps  the  most  exquisite 
of  the  poet's  creations  in  this  field.  The  situ- 
ation reveals  a  young  girl  recalling  to  her 
poet  lover  an  old  Greek  tale  he  had  once  told 
her.  There  is  a  suggestion  from  some  critics 
that  Browning  has  drawn  his  wife  in  this  por- 
trait, and  through  it  pays  his  tribute  to  her. 
This  immediately  affords  us  a  clue  to  the 
type  of  character  to  which  the  speaker  be- 
longs. We  cannot  hope  (nor  do  we  wish)  to 
impersonate  Mrs.  Browning,  but  a  knowledge 
of  Mrs.  Browning  and  her  relation  to  her 
poet  lover,  gained  through  a  study  of  her 
Letters  and  Sonnets,  will  lead  us  more  quick- 
14  205 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

ly  to  a  comprehension  of  the  speaker  and 
situation  in  the  "Tale." 

\  Obsessed  by  the  spirit  of  the  character  and 
fully  realizing  the  situation  our  next  step  is, 
in  imagination,  to  set  the  stage.  This  is  an 
important  point  in  presenting  a  monologue. 
/The  impersonator  must  have  a  clear  idea  of 
*•  his  position  on  his  imaginary  stage  relative 
to  his  imaginary  interlocutor.  But  he  must 
remember  that  imaginary  stage-setting  ad- 
mits of  only  delicately  suggestive  use.  This 
is  true  of  the  handling  of  a  monologue  at  ev- 
ery point.  It  must  be  suggestive.  The  actor 
carries  to  completion  the  action  which  the 
monologuist  suggests.  The  art  of  interpret- 
ing a  monologue  depends  upon  the  discrimi- 
nation of  the  impersonator  in  drawing  his 
line  between  suggestion  and  actualization  in 
gesture.  The  business  of  the  monologuist 
is  to  make  an  appeal  to  the  imagination  of 
the  audience  so  vivid  that  the  imagination 
of  the  audience  can  actualize  the  suggestion. 
And  the  illusion  is  complete.  What  are  the 
relative  positions  of  the  girl  and  her  lover 
in  the  "Tale"  ?  There  is  nothing  in  the  lines 
206 


DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE  AND  PLAY 

to  make  our  choice  arbitrary.  It  is  only  im- 
portant that  we  determine  a  relation  and 
keep  it  consistently  throughout  the  reading. 
Here  is  a  possible  "setting.'*  They  are  in 
the  poet's  study;  he  is  working  at  his  desk; 
she  is  sitting  in  a  great  chair  before  the  fire, 
a  book  in  her  hand,  which  she  does  not  read; 
she  is  gazing  into  the  flames.  She  begins 
dreamily,  more  to  herself  than  to  him  — 
"What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me."  At 
what  point  does  her  tone  lose  its  reflective 
quality  and  become  more  personal?  Where 
does  she  turn  to  him?  How  do  we  know 
that  he  leaves  his  chair  and  comes  over  to 
sit  on  the  arm  of  her  chair  ?  What  calls  him 
to  her?  What  two  qualities  of  feeling  run 
through  her  mood  and  determine  the  color 
of  her  tone  and  the  character  of  her  move- 
ments. If  your  study  of  Mrs.  Browning  has 
been  intelligent,  this  interplay  of  the  whim- 
sical and  serious  in  her  nature  cannot  have 
escape,d  you,  and  it  will  illumine  now  your 
impersonation  of  this  girl.  It  is  the  secret  of 
the  peculiar  charm  of  this  creation.  The 
story  she  tells  is  an  old  and  well-known  one. 
207 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

It  is  the  manner  of  the  telling  through  which 
we  come  in  touch  with  an  exquisite  woman's 
soul  that  holds  us  spellbound.  Unless  the 
interpreter  catches  this  secret  and  reveals 
it  to  his  audience,  he  will  miss  the  distinctive 
feature  of  the  monologue  and  reduce  it  to 
a  narrative  poem. 


A  TALE 


"  What  a  pretty  tale  you  told  me 

Once  upon  a  time 
— Said  you  found  it  somewhere  (scold  me!) 

Was  it  prose  or  was  it  rhyme, 
Greek  or  Latin?     Greek,  you  said, 
While  your  shoulder  propped  my  head. 


II 


Anyhow  there's  no  forgetting 

This  much  if  no  more, 
That  a  poet  (pray,  no  petting!) 

Yes,  a  bard,  sir,  famed  of  yore, 
Went  where  such  like  used  to  go, 
Singing  for  a  prize,  you  know. 
208 


DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE   AND   PLAY 

III 

Well,  he  had  to  sing,  nor  merely 

Sing  but  play  the  lyre; 
Playing  was  important  clearly 

Quite  as  singing:  I  desire, 
Sir,  you  keep  the  fact  in  mind 
For  a  purpose  that's  behind. 

IV 

There  stood  he,  while  deep  attention 

Held  the  judges  round, 
— Judges  able,  I  should  mention, 

To  detect  the  slightest  sound 
Sung  or  played  amiss:  such  ears 
Had  old  judges,  it  appears! 


None  the  less  he  sang  out  boldly, 

Played  in  time  and  tune, 
Till  the  judges,  weighing  coldly 

Each  note's  worth,  seemed,  late  or  soon, 
Sure  to  smile  '  In  vain  one  tries 
Picking  faults  out:  take  the  prize!' 

VI 

When,  a  mischief!     Were  they  seven 

Strings  the  lyre  possessed? 
Oh,  and  afterward  eleven, 

Thank  you!     Well,  sir — who  had  guessed 
Such  ill  luck  in  store? — it  happed 
One  of  those  same  seven  strings  snapped. 
209 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

VII 

All  was  lost,  then!     No!  a  cricket 

(What  'cicada'?     Pooh!) 
— Some  mad  thing  that  left  its  thicket 

For  mere  love  of  music — flew 
With  its  little  heart  on  fire, 
Lighted  on  the  crippled  lyre. 

VIII 

So  that  when  (Ah,  joy!)  our  singer 

For  his  truant  string 
Feels  with  disconcerted  finger, 

What  does  cricket  else  but  fling 
Fiery  heart  forth,  sound  the  note 
Wanted  by  the  throbbing  throat? 

IX 

Ay  and,  ever  to  the  ending, 

Cricket  chirps  at  need, 
Executes  the  hands  intending, 

Promptly,  perfectly, — indeed 
Saves  the  singer  from  defeat 
With  her  chirrup  low  and  sweet. 


Till,  at  ending,  all  the  judges 

Cry  with  one  assent 
'Take  the  prize — a  prize  who  grudges 

Such  a  voice  and  instrument? 
Why,  we  took  your  lyre  for  harp, 
So  it  shrilled  us  forth  F  sharp!' 
210 


DRAMATIC   MONOLOGUE   AND   PLAY 

XI 

Did  the  conqueror  spurn  the  creature, 

Once  its  service  done? 
That's  no  such  uncommon  feature 

In  the  case  when  Music's  son 
Finds  his  Lotte's  power  too  spent 
For  aiding  soul-development. 

XII 

No!     This  other,  on  returning 

Homeward,  prize  in  hand, 
Satisfied  his  bosom's  yearning: 

(Sir,  I  hope  you  understand!) 
— Said  'Some  record  there  must  be 
Of  this  cricket's  help  to  me!' 

XIII 

So,  he  made  himself  a  statue: 

Marble  stood,  life-size; 
On  the  lyre,  he  pointed  at  you, 

Perched  his  partner  in  the  prize; 
Never  more  apart  you  found 
Her,  he  throned,  from  him,  she  crowned. 

XIV 

That's  the  tale:  its  application? 

Somebody  I  know 
Hopes  one  day  for  reputation 

Thro'  his  poetry  that's — oh, 
All  so  learned  and  so  wise 
And  deserving  of  a  prize! 
211 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

XV 

If  he  gains  one,  will  some  ticket, 

When  his  statue's  built, 
Tell  the  gazer  '  'Twas  a  cricket 

Helped  my  crippled  lyre,  whose  lilt 
Sweet  and  low,  when  strength  usurped 
Softness'  place  i'  the  scale,  she  chirped? 

XVI 

Tor  as  victory  was  nighest, 

While  I  sang  and  played — 
With  my  lyre  at  lowest,  highest, 

Right  alike, — one  string  that  made 
"Love"  sound  soft  was  snapt  in  twain, 
Never  to  be  heard  again, — 

XVII 

'Had  not  a  kind  cricket  fluttered, 

Perched  upon  the  place 
Vacant  left,  and  duly  uttered 

"Love,  Love,  Love,"  whene'er  the  bass 
Asked  the  treble  to  atone 
For  its  somewhat  sombre  drone.' 

XVIII 

But  you  don't  know  music!     Wherefore 

Keep  on  casting  pearls 
To  a — poet?     All  I  care  for 

Is — to  tell  him  that  a  girl's 
'  Love '  comes  aptly  in  when  gruff 
Grows  his  singing.     (There,  enough!)" 

212 


DRAMATIC   MONOLOGUE   AND   PLAY 

INCIDENT  OF  THE   FRENCH   CAMP 


"You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon: 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

II 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused  'My  plans 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader  Lannes 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,' — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery  smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping;  nor  bridle  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Ill 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  mane,  a  boy: 

You  hardly  could  suspect — 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed, 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through) 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 
213 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

IV 

'Well,'  cried  he,  'Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We've  got  you  Ratisbon! 
The  Marshal's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you'll  be  there  anon 
To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him!'     The  chief's  eye  flashed;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 


The  chief's  eye  flashed;  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes; 
'You're  wounded!'     'Nay,'  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said: 
'I'm  killed,  Sire!'     And  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling  the  boy  fell  dead." 


MY   LAST   DUCHESS 

PERRARA 

"  That's  my  last  Duchess  painted  on  the  wall, 
Looking  as  if  she  were  alive.     I  call 
That  piece  a  wonder,  now:  Fra  Pandolf's  hands 
Worked  busily  a  day,  and  there  she  stands. 
Will  't  please  you  sit  and  look  at  her?     I  said 
'Fra  Pandolf  by  design;  for  never  read 
214 


DRAMATIC  MONOLOGUE  AND  PLAY 

Strangers  like  you  that  pictured  countenance, 
The  depth  and  passion  of  its  earnest  glance, 
But  to  myself  they  turned  (since  none  puts  by 
The  curtain  I  have  drawn  for  you,  but  I) 
And  seemed  as  they  would  ask  ire,  if  they  durst, 
How  such  a  glance  came  there;  so,  not  the  first 
Are  you  to  turn  and  ask  thus.     Sir,  'twas  not 
Her  husband's  presence  only,  called  that  spot 
Of  joy  into  the  Duchess'  cheek:  perhaps 
Fra  Pandolf  chanced  to  say  'Her  mantle  laps 
Over  my  lady's  wrist  too  much,'  or  'Paint 
Must  never  hope  to  reproduce  the  faint 
Half-flush  that  dies  along  her  throat ' :  such  stuff 
Was  courtesy,  she  thought,  and  cause  enough 
For  calling  up  that  spot  of  joy.     She  had 
A  heart — how  shall  I  say  ? — too  soon  made  glad, 
Too  easily  impressed;  she  liked  whate'er 
She  looked  on,  and  her  looks  went  everywhere. 
Sir,  'twas  all  one!     My  favor  at  her  breast, 
The  dropping  of  the  daylight  in  the  West, 
The  bough  of  cherries  some  officious  fool 
Broke  in  the  orchard  for  her,  the  white  mule 
She  rode  with  round  the  terrace — all  and  each 
Would  draw  from  her  alike  the  approving  speech, 
Or  blush,  at  least.     She  thanked  men, — good! 

but  thanked 

Somehow — I  know  not  how — as  if  she  ranked 
My  gift  of  a  nine-hundred-years-old  name 
With  anybody's  gift.     Who'd  stoop  to  blame 
This  sort  of  trifling?     Even  had  you  skill 
In  speech — (which  I  have  not) — to  make  your  will 
Quite  clear  to  such  an  one,  and  say,  'Just  this 
Or  that  in  you  disgusts  me;  here  you  miss, 

215 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

Or  there  exceed  the  mark' — and  if  she  let 
Herself  be  lessoned  so,  nor  plainly  set 
Her  wits  to  yours,  forsooth,  and  made  excuse, 
— E'en   then   would   be   some   stooping;  and   I 

choose 

Never  to  stoop.     Oh  sir,  she  smiled,  no  doubt, 
Whene'er  I  passed  her;  but  who  passed  without 
Much  the  same  smile?     This  grew;  I  gave  com- 
mands ; 
Then   all    smiles   stopped   together.     There   she 

stands 

As  if  alive.     Will  't  please  you  rise  ?     We'll  meet 
The  company  below,  then.     I  repeat, 
The  Count  your  master's  known  munificence 
Is  ample  warrant  that  no  just  pretence 
Of  mine  for  dowry  will  be  disallowed; 
Though  his  fair  daughter's  self,  as  I  avowed 
At  starting,  is  my  object.     Nay,  we'll  go 
Together  down,  sir.     Notice  Neptune,  though, 
Taming  a  sea-horse,  thought  a  rarity, 
Which  Claus  of  Innsbruck  cast  in  bronze  for  me!" 
— ROBERT  BROWNING. 

Our  last  form  for  interpretative  vocal  study 
is  the  play.  We  shall  discover  that  the  pres- 
entation of  the  play  makes  the  same  de- 
mands upon  the  interpreter  as  the  monologue 
with  the  new  element  of  "transition."  We 
are  still  studying  the  monologue,  because  we 
are  to  read  not  act  the  play.  It  is  still  sug- 
216 


DRAMATIC   MONOLOGUE   AND   PLAY 

gestive  not  actualized  impersonation.  But 
instead  of  one  character  to  suggestively  set 
forth  we  have  two,  three,  a  dozen  to  present. 
The  transition  from  character  to  character 
becomes  our  one  new  problem.  As  we  have 
said  before,  in  making  the  transition  from 
character  to  character,  voice,  mind,  and  body 
must  be  so  volatile  that  the  action  of  the 
play  shall  not  be  interrupted.  I  know  of  no 
better  way  to  enter  upon  the  study  of  a  play 
for  reading  (or  acting)  than  to  treat  each  char- 
aracter  as  the  speaker  in  a  monologue  of  the 
Browning  type.  The  danger  in  transition 
from  character  to  character  centres  in  the  in- 
stant's pause  when  one  speaker  yields  to  an- 
other. The  unskilful  reader  loses  both  char- 
acters at  this  point  and  becomes  conscious  of 
himself;  the  action  of  the  play  stops;  and  the 
illusion  of  scene  and  situation  is  lost.  The 
great  reader  of  the  play  (in  that  "  instant's 
pause"),  as  he  utters  the  last  word  of  one 
character,  becomes  the  interlocutor  listening 
to  the  words  which  he  as  the  other  character 
has  just  uttered.  In  that  instant  he  must 
show  the  effect  of  the  speech  he  has  just 
217 


THE    SPEAKING    VOICE 

uttered  upon  the  character  he  has  just  be- 
come. Which  is  the  greater  art :  to  read  a 
play,  or  to  act  in  it  ? 

Use  for  your  study  of  the  play  the  Shake- 
spearian drama.  Begin  with  scenes  from  "As 
You  Like  It"  and  "The  Merchant  of  Venice." 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


~T~j«i 

t-f  ff,  f"  v  >  Ji""S      r      j^»j 

"t^-  U  L.D 

64  -/pM 

LD  21  A-40m-ll,'63                           University  of  California 

(E1602slO)476B                                             Berkeley317 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


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